


Waitress Protection Program

by noplacespecial



Category: 2 Broke Girls, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Darcy Lewis, Crossover, F/M, Hawkguy, inventing new ships ftw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 63,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noplacespecial/pseuds/noplacespecial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a lot easier to forget your past when it isn't being shoved in your face in the form of invading Chitauri.  (Or: How Darcy Got Her Groove Back.  And Her Name.  And A Bonus Archer...or something like that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of a Max-is-really-Darcy story is something that has been floating around in my head for awhile; not terribly original, but I tossed it around on Tumblr and kind of came away with some interesting ideas that I like. And I kind of feel like if I don't get it all down on paper/screen now, I never will, so I'm going to be pushing out fairly short installments at a time. I don't really know where this is going, I'm just having fun with it.

It takes a few minutes to process that New York is actually under attack. For one, they live in Williamsburg; seeing an alien run down the street? Not all that uncommon. Last week there were dudes dressed as giant lobsters roaming around as some sort of…protest? Performance art? She’s not actually sure, she didn’t care enough to check. Tony Stark is on the news zipping around the city in his Iron Man suit, but that’s just a Tuesday. Then there’s Caroline at the window making her panic face, which is hardly a surprise either, because Caroline panics at the drop of a hat. (One time literally, though she maintains that - although the entire thing was totally an accident - no one should ever be wearing berets in the first place.)

It’s also been a long time since New Mexico. Two years since she made the decision to cut the crazy out of her life and part ways with Jane, her magical physics, her demigod boyfriend, and S.H.I.E.L.D. They offered her their version of witness protection, which she had vehemently protested against - both because she did way more than just witness, thankyouverymuch, and also see aforementioned: cutting out the crazy. If Loki had come back looking for seconds, she doubts being tied to the giant bureaucratic organization designated to stopping him was going to help her in any way. Plus, they kind of terrify her. A shadow government with that much power? She can’t help it, she’s a political science major, if asked she could draw you graphs and charts of all the myriad ways that could go terribly, terribly wrong. So she said thanks but no thanks, and went on her merry way. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t happy about it, and Jane wasn’t happy about it, but there really wasn’t anything they could do to force her.

She used to question herself all the time, as to whether or not she’d made the right choice, but as time went on it started to feel normal. She moved out of the desert and to a city so large it was almost terrifyingly easy to get lost. Jane stopped calling and e-mailing when it became clear she wasn’t going to get a response, the nightmares gradually diminished, then stopped (almost) completely, and it finally got to the point where she could walk home at night and not expect doombots to pop out of every darkened alleyway. She’s been Max Black for so long now that sometimes it’s easy to forget about the time when she was Darcy Lewis, queen of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Only it’s turning out that’s a character trait that’s just intrinsic, regardless of her name, because when a stray laser blast shatters the front window of the diner and strikes Han in the shoulder, she finally gets the message that shit is getting real.

“Well fuck,” she says calmly.


	2. Chapter 2

All of the sudden, there’s a whole lot of noise.

Outside, it’s all explosions and alien laser blasters. Max is still peering out the window trying to get a better picture of what’s actually happening, but what she can see from that vantage point is minimal and doesn’t make all that much sense. Behind her, the diner is an eruption of panic. She can hear Sophie’s wails rise above the din of shouting and clanging, even louder than Han’s screams of pain, as people duck and cover. Which she’s aware she should totally be doing right now, but a part of her is still stuck on the fact that she ran away from all of this shit and now here she is back smack-dab in the middle of it.

She whirls around when she hears the unmistakable click of a firearm being cocked, and sees Earl pulling guns from beneath his counter. She goggles at him as he lines up seven of them in a neat row and starts calling out orders like a drill sergeant.

“Everyone get in the back - in the freezer if you can, it’s the strongest door this place has got. Take Han back first, give him some room to lie down. There’s a first aid kit under the sink; if anyone has any medical know-how, now’s the time to use it, his wound needs to be bandaged.”

“I’ve got it,” Caroline says in a confident voice, only the slightest tremor behind it to betray the terror that Max can see in her eyes. “I went to Wharton.” She’s so proud of her she doesn’t bother to point out that any skills learned in business school probably aren’t going to be applicable to their current situation. 

“And Oleg? Shut the fuck up,” Earl adds, selecting a large rifle and moving towards the now open front window. Max notes that the noises she assumed were coming from Sophie are, in fact, being made by Oleg. Sophie herself strides across the floor in her skintight, spangly dress, stilettos clicking against the linoleum as she selects a small pistol from Earl’s stock. She pulls a second one from her purse - gold, with a mother-of-pearl handle and honest to god _rhinestones_. She positions herself next to Earl and aims both weapons like a pro. Noting the blank stares she’s getting, she shrugs.

“I’m from Poland,” she says, as if that explains everything. But there’s no time to argue, because another terrifying alien creature comes tearing down the street. Earl and Sophie both begin firing, and Max isn’t sure whose bullet makes contact, but the thing goes down before it can do much damage. Earl peers out the broken glass, trying see if anything else is coming their way, but he spares a glance for Max.

“If you’re gonna stay up here, you’re gonna need one of those,” he says, gesturing to the array of firearms laid out on the counter. She scans them briefly, but guns have never been her thing. Her dad tried to teach her to shoot when she was a kid, and she had hated it - her real dad, Darcy’s dad, that she can never talk about because he’s not part of the Max Black cover story. But this is not really the time to be reminiscing and weighing pros and cons, as evidenced by another one of the terrifying lizard-alien-things unknowingly walking into the line of fire. This one takes more time and concentration to take down, and Max just wants out. 

“I’m going to go check on Han,” she says. Earl spares her a glance, and she can’t read his expression, but there’s something almost like disappointment lingering there. But it’s not the time for that, either. There’s not time for much of anything except keeping everyone safe. She may not always like Han, but she certainly doesn’t want to see him dead.

Everyone’s head jerks up with terrified expressions when she pops open the cooler door, but they calm when they see it’s just her. They’re huddled together trying to keep warm, Oleg clutching one of Han’s hands. Max shoves aside a random customer and hunches across from him, taking his other hand.

“Max,” he says quietly, but the rest of whatever he meant to say dies on his tongue. Caroline has done a great job of bandaging up his wound, as far as she can tell, and as long as it doesn’t get infected (what would an alien infection look like? Fetus popping out of his stomach? Extraterrestrial STD?), he’s going to be fine. The shaking is probably cold and shock more than anything, and Max takes off her apron to drape over his shoulders.

“Bet you’re wishing you hadn’t told me to shut up every time I made a sex change joke,” she says, wiggling her chest at him. “These babies are better than kevlar.” It does the trick, as a soft chuckle rumbles through the cooler and Oleg even halfheartedly leers at her. She’s just starting to calm down a little when Caroline grabs her arm.

“Max,” she says lowly, the panic starting to bleed through her practiced calm. “What about Chestnut?”

Oh, for the love of god. She really, really wants to say screw it. She wants to hunker down, wait it out, and then pretend this day never happened. A horse is not worth one of their lives. And yet…last time this happened, she was rescuing puppies she had only found a few minutes before, and townspeople that she was pretty sure hated her (the feeling was mutual). This is Chestnut, though. And as stupid as it sounds, that damn horse is one of the best friends she’s ever had.

“I just cannot escape this shit,” she moans. Caroline cocks her eyebrow in confusion, but Max just sighs, squaring her shoulders.

She’s already survived one apocalypse. What’s another?


	3. Chapter 3

The first time Clint meets her, there’s not really time to get a name.

The Avengers stay in Cap’s appointed formation for as long as possible. Clint couldn’t say how long in actual time, because it’s probably minutes but feels like hours. Time always seems to stretch and slow during combat, pierced in-between with the satisfying thwack of his arrows hitting their targets. He loses his spot on top of an office building when he nearly gets taken out by the tail of one of the... are those space whales? Now he’s really seen it all. It doesn’t really matter what they are, though, all that matters is that they are very big and frankly very terrifying, and he does one of his trademark dive-bombs off the roof just in time to avoid getting swatted like a pesky fly off the back of a cat. He tucks and rolls, ignoring the jarring pain in his limbs that’s partly age and partly over-use, and ends up back down on street level, surrounded by buildings and not able to see the others anymore. Sighing, he knocks back an arrow and holds it at the ready, cocked but not aimed, as he tears through the streets to find a better vantage point.

His journey is slow-going, as he dodges clueless screaming pedestrians without enough sense to get out of the way, and stops to help the injured he encounters. He takes out each of the Chitauri that he sees, arrows (and, in one instance, knife) meeting scaly flesh and always emerging the victor. He may not be the smartest or the strongest, but aside from being a good shot (hell, who is he kidding? He’s a fucking _fantastic_ shot), he’s also the goddamn luckiest bastard on this planet. He should have died a thousand times by now, be it by the hands of enemy gunfire in the army, pneumonia without proper medication at age eight under the circus tent, or any of the various assassins and creatures of unknown origin he’s encountered while at S.H.I.E.L.D. And every time, he always manages to scrape by. It’s given him a perhaps unhealthy disregard for death and his own mortality, but damn if it doesn’t mean he will charge into a fight and give it his all, no matter the stakes.

In his ear, Natasha announces she’s headed for Stark Tower to try and close the portal. Clint does an about-face in the middle of the street and rounds the corner he just passed, heading that way to help out (or, as is more par for the course in their partnership, stand back and watch Tash kick some ass). He comes up short when he sees who - and what - is headed straight for him.

It’s a chick. On a fucking _horse._

And he thought the space whales were the weirdest thing he was going to see today.

She rides with confidence, leaning down to tap the horse's neck periodically, chattering and stroking his mane. He assumes this is probably her horse, not one she found wandering the city...not that it makes it any less strange. He’s still standing in the middle of the street, gawking at the sight like a moron, when the horse pulls up short in front of him. The girl raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Move it or lose it dude,” she says. She’s wearing a battered ketchup-and-mustard waitress uniform that he absolutely does not notice is riding up her thighs. Because sure, waitress on a horse. In the middle of New York City. During an alien attack. Why not? 

Actually…

“Give me a ride,” he commands. Okay, he doesn’t actually _mean_ to command, but it comes out like that anyway. Which is unfortunate. The brunette chokes out a laugh.

“Chestnut, attack!” she yells, nudging the stallion’s belly. Chestnut snorts and remains in place. “We’re working on that,” she amends.

“Look, I’m with S.H.I.E.L.D…” Clint tries. Her laugh is louder this time.

“That’d be a no.”

“That’s the Strategic Homeland Intervention-”

“Yeah, that’d be a hell no.” She clucks her tongue and pulls Chestnut to the right, urging him around Clint. “Sorry, random stranger, this isn’t the time for pony rides. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

Unfortunately, she can’t get anywhere all that quickly, because there are still the aforementioned clueless pedestrians zipping haphazardly from one side of the street to the other, trying to regroup with loved ones even though their first priority _should_ be finding shelter. Chestnut picks his way forward a few steps, but her position above the rest of the crowd also makes the brunette a target. She’s just about eye level to the Chitauri that drops in front of them, but Clint’s got an arrow through the thing’s heart before she can even finish a scream. Her head whips around, eyes wide, as she spies the bow in his hands and puts two and two together. Clint strides in front of horse and rider to retrieve his arrow from its victim, wiping blood off of the head onto the leg of his pants.

“So,” he says casually. “About that ride…”


	4. Chapter 4

Her father, she thinks, would love this shit.

Harvey Lewis was a Navy pilot in his youth; all cigar smoke and bravado, a military brat already used to the base-hopping lifestyle. Claire Sorenson was a flower child who smelled of patchouli and sold beaded bracelets out of the back of a van when they met, dated, and married - all within the span of six weeks. A child was never in their plans, and yet four years later a baby girl with a healthy set of lungs came screaming into their lives and got dragged along for the ride. Nothing was ever certain growing up, between her father’s constant reassignments and her mother’s revolving door of career choices that never seemed to pan out, but if there’s a lesson she learned from them it’s that life is malleable and inconstant. She adapted because she had no other choice, and it’s a skill that has served her well in life. Not everyone would take so easily to gods raining down from the skies and macking on their boss, but it was what it was. She wasn’t jaded enough to actually think she’d seen it all, but she’d seen enough to know that panicking never helped the situation. It was best to just go with the flow. Hiding from a shadowy government organization that still owed her an mp3 player? Cool. Befriend the daughter of the city’s biggest pariah? Awesome. Aliens attacking said city? Of course. Ruggedly handsome dude with medieval weaponry using her and her pet horse as a taxi service (and, let’s be real, the fact that she has a pet horse)? Why not.

Chestnut is cool as a cucumber amidst all the chaos - he’s been living in their backyard and taking walks down their street for months now, and invading aliens have nothing on Brooklyn hipsters. The hitchhiker riding shotgun is not the worst as far as random traveling companions go; she’s not sure what to make of the ensemble and accompanying weaponry, but _damn_ do those arms make up for it. He rides almost side-saddle, astoundingly keeping himself balanced as he twists this way and that, firing off a seemingly unending supply of arrows that knock out anything that even thinks about coming their way. She mentally starts awarding him points for the more difficult shots, like the one hanging upside-down out the thirteenth story window of a high-rise. 

“This would make a kick-ass video game,” she says aloud. Another arrow zips past her ear, and Robin Hood grunts.

“Huh?” he mutters distractedly. 

“Grand Theft Auto 6. Grand Theft Equine? The Pastures of New York?”

“Uh, a little busy here,” comes the response. She shrugs, and lets him do his thing. The diner is just another block or two away, and as useful (and pretty to look at) as he’s been, once she’s there she can ditch this weirdo and make sure everyone is okay. Caroline owes her like a zillion favors for this.

She’s focused on exactly how she’s going to cash in said favors (she’s thinking a foot rub - not because she needs one, but because feet gross Caroline out, and that’s just funny) when something crimson catches her eye. She looks up, and there’s Thor sailing through the clouds. _Thor_ , her buddy, whose childhood stories are like fairytales and who gives the greatest bear hugs known to mankind. Something clenches in her throat.

“Jane,” she blurts out, unable to stop herself. Because Thor is a cool dude and all (even if he did eat all of their PopTarts), but Jane is her _girl_. It’s hard to spends months alone in the desert with someone and not develop some sort of attachment, and she has nothing but fond memories of clear New Mexico nights filled with star-gazing, girl talk, and getting high off of Slurpees. She told Jane things that no one else on this earth outside of her parents know, things she hasn’t even told Caroline, and oh god she abandoned her. Jane lost the love of her life and her surrogate father figure and had to start over all on her own, because there was no way she would have accepted help from any of SHIELD’s goons, and Darcy let her. She was too busy trying to distance herself from it all that she never let herself accept how selfish and terrible she was being. She thinks of all the phone messages she ignored, what they probably contained, and is there someone there to make sure Jane eats and sleeps and takes a shower and goes outside to take a deep breath when she can’t figure something out and it’s starting to drive her crazy? 

She’s surprised when her vision blurs, and realizes that it’s tears. She blinks them back, stopping herself from wiping them away because this eye makeup is _so_ not waterproof. She didn’t think it needed to be; she stopped crying over things a long time ago.

But this is _Jane_.

Oblivious to her meltdown, Robin Hood is still firing. But when Thor’s cape streams into view, he suddenly shouts:

“Thor! What’s going on? I’m on the ground, heading towards Widow.”

What. The actual. _Fuck_.

Then static crackles, faintly, and she hears his voice: “Mighty Hawkeye, we are also en route to the Tower of Stark. The Lady Natasha has not yet informed me of her plan to stop Loki’s army, but I trust her judgment as I do yours.” And yeah, she doesn’t understand most of that, but she understands that it’s a comm unit of some sort. This dude and Thor are _friends_ , or partners, or something. Which, really, she should have figured out from the costume, but come on, most superheroes don’t dress in purple. She also definitely understood the _Loki_ part, and for fuck’s sake. 

Darcy Lewis, Queen of Wrong Place and Wrong Time. She’s going to get it embroidered on something.


	5. Chapter 5

“We’re going the wrong way,” Robin Hood pipes up from behind her. Max snorts and steers Chestnut around a chunk of fallen debris. It’d be nice if invading aliens came with a decent insurance policy, because this city is getting torn to shit right before their eyes. Han is going to be pissed when he realizes they’ll have to fix the broken window and clean up the street before they can re-open. She makes a left at the nail salon that always smells like rotten cheese, for reasons she prefers not to dwell on, and she _expects_ the diner to come into view. Except what she sees instead is a wall of cinderblocks, with milk crates stacked on top of them, blocking the alley almost completely except for a narrow doorway. Earl stands in said doorway, shotgun cocked and ready in his hands, but he lowers it when he sees who’s approaching.

“Permission to enter, Captain?” she jokes, still taking it all in. Earl gives her companion a shrewd look, then nods.

“Permission granted,” he responds, stepping aside and gesturing her through. “Though I prefer General.” She hops to the ground and enters the blockade, giving him a kiss on the cheek as she passes and leaving Robin Hood to play ranch hand. Whatever, he owes her for the ride. Not necessarily to his desired location, but…details.

The barricade spans the width of the restaurant, giving them cover with the front window still knocked out. Sophie stands in the entrance opposite Earl, and gives Max a wave before turning her attention back to the streets, her trusty revolver in hand. A folding table has been dragged out into the alley, and its flimsy legs bow under the weight of Earl’s arsenal. (She makes a mental note never to stiff him on tips _ever again_.) Through the busted window, she spies Han sprawled out on a bed of coats and aprons in one of the booths, properly bandaged and seeming to have gained back some of his color. And then, voice rising above the din, there’s Caroline. She’s shouting orders like a drill sergeant, while the unfortunate slobs who chose the absolute wrong place to eat today (doubly unfortunate; she wouldn’t wish Han’s burgers on her worst enemy) scurry about to do her bidding. The milk crates are being filled with various kitchenware and appliances to weigh them down, the holes in the cinderblocks patched with telephone books, bags of flour, and clothes clearly stolen from the dry cleaners next door. (This also explains Han’s fur coat.)

“Hey Caroline, I brought you a present,” she calls. Caroline blinks, taking a second to come out of the daze of power, and all but jumps up and down when she spots her.

“You found him!” she squeals, rushing forward to enfold her in a hug. “Is he okay, does he need anything, he’s not hurt is he? Oh, god…”

“Calm down, he’s fine,” she assures, leading Caroline back outside so that she can see for herself. “I left him with the help.”

“Uh…what?”

“Don’t worry, I got it covered.” 

Except maybe not, because when she ventures back out into the alley both Earl and Sophie are firing at a squadron of three aliens on Sophie’s side of the blockade and “the help” is turning Chestnut in the opposite direction, ready to make a run for it. Well, he’s trying, at least. Thank god Chestnut’s stubborn streak is about as wide as her own, and he doesn’t respond well to new people - it took her several months and lots and lots of treats to finally earn his trust, neither of which the SHIELD lackey kicking at his belly has on hand right now.

“Excuse me, where the fuck do you think you’re going?” she demands. Merida (he’s been downgraded from Robin Hood; nobody who tries to steal her horse gets to keep his masculinity) turns and regards her with a look of consternation. 

“Look, ma’am, I appreciate the lift and all, but I need to get to Stark Tower immediately.”

“So walk,” she retorts. “Run, jump…fly, for all I care. But you are _not_ taking our horse.” He has the temerity to glare at her, angrily, as if this is all _her_ fault, and that’s it. He’s going to lose his masculinity in the literal sense if she has anything to say about it.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, there are fucking _aliens_ attacking the city,” Merida grits out. “No offense, but that kind of takes priority over you playing Animal Cop.”

Balls. Removed. From. Body.

“And who exactly put you in charge?” she challenges, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m with SHIELD.”

“And what the fuck does that mean?”

“That’s…classified.”

“Mmm-hmm. So let me get this straight. I’m supposed to trust the random guy trying to steal from me, who seems to think Halloween has come five months early and is claiming to be from some creepy government agency that no one has ever heard of and he can’t talk about. I can’t _imagine_ why I wouldn’t just go along with that.” She glares. He glares right back.

“If you’ve got a plan, I’m all ears.”

“Yeah I’ve got a plan, it’s called get the fuck off my horse and go save the world by yourself.” From beside her, Caroline tugs on her sleeve.

“Max, maybe we should let him go,” she says, eyeing the armored vest and the quiver of arrows, but come on, it’s not like that’s fooling anyone. Sophie is armed too, for christ's sake, and no one’s taking _that_ as gospel. (Okay, bad analogy - Sophie could probably singlehandedly save them all, and not even break a nail. But her point still stands.) 

“Do you really want to leave Chestnut in the hands of this weirdo?” she demands of Caroline, who looks back and forth between them uneasily, just as Merida cranes his neck and pokes at his earpiece, listening. Before any of them can say anything more, however, Earl materializes beside them.

“Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division; designation 8QFR40, Level 9,” he barks. “Take the damn horse.” 

Four heads swivel in tandem, with matching sets of wide eyes and dropped jaws. Earl takes it all in calmly, pulling out his wallet and flashing an honest-to-god SHIELD badge.

Max sways as all of the air goes out of her.

“Easy, kid,” Earl murmurs, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “This isn’t the time.” But it’s not like there’s going to be a _good_ time for a mental crisis, and excuse her if she chooses to have one after learning that SHIELD has been on her ass all along. All the time and energy she spent distancing herself from New Mexico, all of the times she lie awake at night terrified, wondering if she’d done the right thing, if she was safe, if Jane and Thor and the stupid New Mexico townies were safe…and the whole time, they’d known exactly where she was. It’s simultaneously terrifying and infuriating, and having it be Earl - one of the few people she genuinely cares about, confides in - just adds insult to injury. She’s still staring at him, dazed, when he gently pushes her forward.

“Take her with you,” he demands. Merida’s eyes widen.

“Take a civilian into the middle of a war zone? Not a chance.”

“Boy, I outrank you,” Earl snaps, and she bites back a grin as Merida looks properly chastened. Earl can be downright terrifying when he wants to be, and she supposes now she knows why. “She can handle herself. And that horse ain’t gonna let you get any further than the end of this alleyway without her along.” Well, half of that statement is true, at least. Still, as much as she would like to continue pissing off the cocky asshole with the world’s dumbest choice in weaponry…

“Earl, I don’t belong out there,” she says, clutching his arm. Earl smiles warmly at her.

“That’s the thing,” he urges. “You _do_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to [psychollama](http://psychollama.tumblr.com/) for the idea of Earl as secret SHIELD agent.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, those are very blatant Buffy references; no, I know nothing about New York geography. I am having entirely too much fun with this, and you all are awesome. Also god bless _Thor: The Dark World_ for making this chapter ~~totally~~ somewhat plausible.

When Clint fucks her against a brick wall in an alleyway, she tells him her name is Max. Actually, her name tag tells him that, which is…kind of humiliating, actually. He’s not going to pretend like he’s always the perfect gentleman, but he usually at least knows a woman’s name before he sleeps with her. He usually at least somewhat _likes_ her, too, but Max…well…

Look, she started it, okay?

By the time they set out for Stark Tower for real, the streets have mercifully cleared. He has once again been relegated to the passenger’s seat atop Chestnut, Max - who is at this point still merely The Waitress - taking control of the reins and letting the horse actually pick up decent speed. It’s cool in a bizarre sort of way, cantering through empty streets with his bow tight in his grip, picking off Chitauri footsoldiers one by one. (There’s something to be said for the whole video game thing, but he keeps that to himself.) 

The Tower is basically a disaster zone when they pull up within the general vicinity. Panicked civilians dodge from one direction to another, looking for shelter but not finding it - most of the nearby buildings have been almost completely demolished. He knows from comm chatter that Tony is trying to redirect a missile headed for them, Natasha is up top, trying to close the portal. Steve is nowhere to be seen, leaving Thor and Hulk to fend off a trio of space whales.

 _Seriously._ Fucking _space whales_.

“What. The _actual_ fuck,” The Waitress murmurs, right on cue. Clint sighs and stretches out his shoulders. He’s tired and aching and feeling every one of his years right now, but this is it. This is what he does. He hops down from the horse and gives The Waitress an awkward pat on the ankle.

“Don’t get killed or anything,” he says. She arches an eyebrow. “Because that little old dude is scary, and he’s also level 9. He probably knows where I sleep.” Hulk’s deafening roar echoes from behind him, sending tremors through the street, and with what he hopes is a dashing grin, he turns tail and runs straight into the fray. 

“Need some help?” he calls out as a greeting, launching a rope arrow directly at the belly of the third, unoccupied whale. It doesn’t even seem to notice, which is distinctly to his advantage, and he scrambles up until he’s got to use the thing’s scales as hand-holds. When he finally makes it onto its back, he yanks his quiver around to survey what little arsenal he’s got left. There’s one lone electrostatic arrowhead and one exploding one that should do nicely. 

“Typical, Barton,” Tasha responds. “Show up when all the work’s done.” It’s their usual teasing banter, but he can hear the exhaustion in her words. He glances over at Thor and Hulk, each atop their own respective whales trying to make a dent, and sees that the sentiment is very much felt by all of them. He hopes to god Stark and that missile show up soon, because they’re fading fast. Even the mutants and demi-gods.

The space whale beneath him takes a sudden nose-dive, rolling over like a dog doing tricks for its master, and Clint realizes that it’s trying to shake him off. But he holds on tight, digs his hands and feet into whatever leverage he can find. When the thing rights itself, he vaults forward for its neck. It takes another spin, but this time Clint is prepared for it, and lodges himself in-between the rows of its protruding scales.

“Your idea of all the work being ‘done’ leaves something to be desired,” he shouts into the comm, just as the whale rights itself again. He clambers over the uneven terrain of its skin-slash-armor until he reaches its eye. Bingo. It’s something he learned long ago, dealing with the kind of stuff that SHIELD deals with - don’t go for the flashy tentacles just because they’re waving them around trying to get attention. Go for the center - brains, heart, eyes. Everything’s got eyes.

(Though he’s sure he’ll be proven wrong on that point any day now.)

He’s too close to bother shooting, so he just jams the electrostatic arrow in there as far as he can get it. The whale lurches, letting out a cry that sounds like what Clint imagines a thousand dying walruses would sound like. There’s not much time for any sort of celebrating, however, because leaving the thing with only one eye means that its flight path becomes haphazard and jerky, nearly throwing Clint off several times. It switches direction without warning and crashes into things as it attempts to keep up its perimeter guard around Stark Tower, making Clint’s journey to the good eye far more treacherous - thank god he spent some time training with the acrobat troupe as a kid. Still, despite his excellent balance his progress is slow, and he cuts the witty banter with Nat. This is why he’s on this team - he might not be all flash and smash like the others, but he can wait as long as he needs to for the right moment. Clint bides his time, gets in position and waits until the eyelid is fully open before he strikes, lightning-fast, and then the whale is shuddering beneath him as the exploding arrow detonates. The beast goes down, thrashing and letting out another unholy cry. Clint leaps clear to land on the roof of the Tower (quite gracefully, if he does say so himself, and sticking the landing isn’t exactly his strong suit) next to Natasha, who merely raises an eyebrow at him.

“If this was a video game, I would totally be winning right now,” he informs her. He’s not surprised when she ignores him, but Selvig at least has the decency to give him a discrete high-five.

Tony comes zooming past just then, and everything seems to happen in slow motion - Natasha jamming Loki’s scepter into the forcefield; Iron Man disappearing into the portal, then falling back out of it; the entire Chitauri army collapsing as one; silence on the comms, a roar from Hulk, then the return of Tony’s incessant chatter - something Clint never thought he’d be grateful for. Standing guard over Loki, all of them, as a team. 

And then it’s over. The battle’s done, and they’ve kind of won, but Coulson’s loss is still heavy over all of them. Clint recalls all the years of shooting the shit over field reports, doing shots with him and Tash after a mission went south (so, _a lot_ ), playing stupid games and pranks on each other just because. But he resolutely shoves this all to the back of his mind. There will be time to grieve later (mandated counseling sessions for sure; he’ll probably be benched and under psych eval for awhile too). For now, SHIELD packs up Loki and the scepter for safekeeping, until Thor can transport them back to Asgard, and then they’re going for shawarma, just so that Tony will shut the fuck up about it. Everything feels surreal - if not for the massive amounts of property damage everywhere he looks, Clint would almost swear that the whole ordeal was just a really bad dream. It still feels like only a few hours ago he was sitting up top in the PEGASUS lab, standing guard over Selvig and his crew. And everything that happened in-between, well…he supposes the SHIELD shrinks will have something to say about that, too, even if he himself at the moment feels carefully neutral.

Seeing the mouthy brunette on the horse when he ventures back into the street is a really bizarre breath of fresh air, given that he finds her fairly irritating and she has made her disdain for him pretty clear. But she’s real, and normal - and with the exception of what he guesses is Chitauri entrails sliming across the hem of her uniform, there is nothing about her that is mind-control or aliens. She’s sitting tall atop Chestnut when he spots her in the crowd, shouting orders at anyone who will listen. And what kind of shocks Clint is that they _do_. Including the swarms of EMT’s, who go where she directs them to collect the wounded and maintain the integrity of the two lines she’s got going - emergency personnel on their way in, and civilians on their way out. He’s got to hand it to the city - they’ve got their shit together. Basically everything is in shambles, from the buildings to the roads to probably half the vehicles in a five mile radius, yet still there are already crews here to help. They’ve amassed a pretty impressive group of plainclothes volunteers, too - some of them help the EMT’s, while others try to clear the debris from the streets. He spots Cap in the mix, helping a group of college-aged guys haul a particularly massive chunk of cement out of the way, and he swears he has a reason when he strides over to stand next to them.

“Ah,” he says eloquently. Cap grins at him easily though, wiping sweat from his forehead. 

“Work’s never done, huh?” he says good-naturedly. God, the guy’s ninety and he still makes Clint feel ancient. But now that he’s out here there’s really nothing to do except pitch in, so with one quick glance over at The Waitress, he slips his hands under a corner and joins the shuffle across the street to the curb, where a pile of rubble is already starting to build up.

“Where’s Hulk when you need him?” he mutters. Steve laughs - probably a little more than is really warranted, it wasn’t _that_ funny. But it’s a good look on him, especially after everything that’s just happened. Hell they could all use a laugh right about now, a little something stupid and life-affirming.

(Coulson would be bitching about the property damage, he thinks, unable to stop himself. He’d be chastising Clint like Clint himself tore apart half of New York, already in the middle of three different phone calls, organizing everything from clean-up crews to after-the-fact PR appearances. Clint would have ended up wearing a suit for said PR appearance, because Phil Coulson has more blackmail on him than probably anyone on this planet besides Nat.

 _Had_. Fuck.)

Tony is starting to get seriously antsy by the time the National Guard finally shows up to take over - Pepper is on her way back, and he’s whining that she never lets him eat, it’s always hospital first. Clint kind of gets that, because god knows he’s always the one trying to sneak out before medical gets ahold of him, and as far as scary redheads go, Pepper is right up on par with Natasha. 

“Come on guys, I almost died. You owe me,” Tony says in their ears. Steve heaves a sigh.

“I’ll go collect him before he starts causing trouble,” he says. “Meet you there?” Clint nods.

“Yeah, I’ve just gotta…” he gestures at The Waitress, who sees it out of the corner of her eye as she’s in mid-conversation with one of the Guards and gives him a spectacularly unimpressed eyebrow raise. (He makes a mental not to never ever introduce her to Natasha.)

“You know her?” Steve asks, and okay yeah, Clint picked up the judgey tone in that statement thankyouverymuch.

“I know her handler,” he lies easily. It’s…not _entirely_ untrue. Steve balks.

“She’s SHIELD?” he exclaims.

“Uhhh. Kinda.” He’s saved from having to explain further, however, because Tony and Thor have already arrived at the restaurant and Thor is trying to convince the poor woman behind the counter to give him the entire roasting spit. Cap laughs again. It makes him look every bit the picture of the shy, scrappy little sixteen-year-old Steve Rogers in his file that Clint may or may not have read despite the fact that he doesn’t have quite that much clearance. (And damn, he’s not going to be able to use Coulson’s passwords anymore.)

“I guess that’s my cue,” he says. “Seeya in a bit.” He grabs his shield and sets off at a jog, yelling into the comm as he goes for Thor to respect Midgardian customs and just order off the menu like everyone else. Thor is not happy about this response, but Clint toggles off the comm as The Waitress finishes her conversation with the Guard.

“I think the little dude might kill me if I don’t deliver you back safely,” he says, and the words sound lame even to his own ears. Her expression tells him that she agrees with this assessment.

“The little dude is named Earl, and he knows I can take care of myself,” she retorts, seemingly almost on reflex. But she hops down off of the horse anyway, lets Clint steady her when her feet hit the ground and wobble. He gently takes the reins out of her hands and tugs, grinning when Chestnut obeys his command.

“You’ve had long day, haven’t you buddy?” The Waitress asks. And he’s actually about to answer when he glances over to see that, naturally, she’s talking to the horse.

_Smooth, Barton._

(The voice in his head sounds disturbingly like Tash.)

“I think we’ve all had a long day,” he answers anyway, and she nods quietly in agreement. The chaos of Stark Tower fades away the further they get, and when they round the corner onto a mostly quiet street a block or so away, The Waitress takes in a deep breath and pulls up short, hand closing over Clint’s on the reins.

“Okay. Look, I’ve got it from here,” she says. Clint quirks a brow.

“I don’t mind helping out,” he says, and is surprised to find that he means it. 

“I don’t need help,” she barks back, and yeah, he’d forgotten what a pleasant personality she has. But he takes a second to look at her - really look at her - and she looks as bone-tired as he feels. Half her hair is escaping from its hasty ponytail, and there’s makeup smeared all under her eyes. Her uniform is torn, the nametag - Max, he learns - almost falling off, plus whatever sort of alien entrails are covering it smell pretty rank this close up.

“Nobody ever does,” Clint agrees, speaking from experience. “But sometimes you’ve gotta take it anyway.” Max tilts her head to the side, regarding him, and he’s not exactly sure what he expects her next move to be, but he most definitely doesn’t expect it to be her launching herself against him, kissing him for all she’s worth.

…He can’t say he’s complaining, though.

She pulls off after a moment, eyes blown wide with lust.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, voice deep and husky and going straight to Clint’s dick. “Sorry,” she repeats. “I have really inappropriate reactions to stress.”

“Not a problem,” Clint manages. His hand is on her upper arm and she’s plastered to his front, neither really making much of an effort to disentangle themselves, and oh boy is this a terrible, terrible idea. But that’s about the last sensible thought he has, because she’s biting her lower lip and pressing into him and all blood is flowing elsewhere. Years of combat have taught him to always know his exits, so he doesn’t even have to look to know which direction to drag her that leads them into a darkened alleyway.

“Yeah?” he asks. God he’s suave today. But Max only nods mutely, tying Chestnut’s reins around a drainpipe and resting her back against the brick. She gestures for him, and Clint is in front of her in two strides, slamming her back against the wall as he attacks her mouth with his own.

Has he mentioned this is a really, _really_ bad idea? It’s broad daylight, the city is crawling with law enforcement, he’s pretty sure he saw a dead Chitauri behind the nearby dumpster, and the horse blocking the mouth of the alley isn’t exactly inconspicuous. Not to mention the fact that they’re both in uniform, and he doesn’t know much about the diner she works in, but he’s pretty damn sure SHIELD frowns upon agents being caught with their pants down in public. (Not that it doesn’t happen; he and Nat proved that multiple times over during their short-lived romance. They were at least smart enough not to get caught - though, to be fair, that was mostly because of Nat. If she could see him now, she would kick his ass into next Tuesday.)

But his entire body is still thrumming with adrenaline, and Max moans loudly into his ear when he rocks against her, and that’s about all he needs. He’s spent the last few days in total overdrive; it feels pretty damn nice to succumb to his baser instincts.

Plus. He’s not exactly known for stellar ideas as it is. Why start now?

Clint's hands slip under the skirt of her uniform, and it's a testament to how far gone he already is that he barely notices the slight squish of unknown alien goop on the fabric. She's got a tiny scrap of lace underneath masquerading as underwear, and he pulls it out of the way to slide two fingers into her without warning. She yelps against his mouth, and his lips curve into a smile - sometimes, those bow calluses come in handy. He fingers her fast and hard - there’s not really room or time for finesse right now. Max is fumbling at the various buckles and zippers of his uniform, settling finally for cupping him roughly through the fabric and grinding the heel of her hand against him. It does the trick, and the confines of his pants are starting to feel awfully uncomfortable, but he doesn't do anything about it until a few more well-timed strokes have her coming apart in his arms, making the most amazing sounds. Clint grins stupidly.

“Yeah, yeah," Max says with a roll of her eyes. "You're a stud." Her sarcasm is kind of belied by the fact that she's slumped against the alley wall, hoarse and panting. She takes a few breaths then goes rummaging in the pocket of her apron, from which she pulls out a condom. Clint cocks a brow.

“Do you just...carry those everywhere?" he asks. She narrows her eyes at him.

“Hey. No judging. It takes two to fuck a stranger in an alleyway, mister." He holds up his hands.

“Not judging. I swear." To prove his point, he takes the foil packet from her and guides her hands back down to his belt, where he helps her undo the uniform until she can worm her hand into his briefs and take him firmly in her grasp. Clint groans into the skin of her neck and hurriedly shoves his pants as far down as he can get them without having to unholster anything else. God, he hates having sex in this getup. Remembering how much of a nightmare Tash's suit was for post-battle quickies as well, he wonders briefly if that was intentional in the design. He wouldn't actually put it past SHIELD.

Neither of them last long, once the condom is slipped into place and he pushes into her. He supposes he should probably be a little embarrassed about that, but whatever. He basically slew a dragon today, so if that isn't enough to prove his awesomeness he doesn't know what is. Max isn't taking much initiative either, just clinging to him and riding it out, and she hardly strikes him as the passive type. But they've both had a long day, her probably moreso - he's at least combat-trained, is used to SHIELD and their circus of the bizarre. She's just a civilian waitress and she not only survived but _thrived_. He's kind of impressed, to be honest. He pulls back a little to look at her, but her face is just kind of blank and exhausted; he figures he probably looks the same. So he leans in and kisses her again, stutters his hips a few times, and then they're both coming. Max goes limp in his arms, and Clint feels the strain of the day start to echo in his joints. He plans on wolfing down as much shawarma as possible, going back to the Tower, and collapsing in one of Tony Stark's ridiculously expensive guest suites. He may or may not even bother showering first.

Max's phone blares, startling them both. It's some pop song Clint is sure he's heard before but can’t place, and she blinks at it, the fatigue clearly setting in for her, too.

“It's Earl," she reports after a moment. "Caroline's coming to get me and Chestnut." Clint nods.

“Good," he says. She regards him oddly for a moment, and he flounders, not really sure what to say next. What exactly _can_ you say in a situation like this? He clearly doesn’t know, so he settles for just kind of awkwardly shuffling his feet.

“Well. It's been fun," Max says matter-of-factly, tugging the hem of her uniform back into place. She brushes past him to go untie Chestnut, and Clint realizes belatedly that his limp dick is still hanging out of his pants. He curses and hurriedly stuffs himself back in. Max is already leaving the alley by the time he gets himself situated and presentable, but he still hasn't figured out what to say. He feels kind of like a tool now that it's all over and the real world is rushing back in. He took advantage of an emotionally vulnerable girl, _while in uniform_. Oh god, he's so getting fired.

“Look, um..." Max turns to him and gives him another chilly eyebrow raise.

“Dude," she says. "Just don't."

Clint doesn't.

He watches her go, still feeling like an ass. He halfheartedly calls out "stay safe," but whether she hears him or not, the waitress keeps on walking without turning around.

Clint goes to eat some shawarma and pretend today never happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Injured space whales sound, in my head, like the big horned goat guys in the last level of DOOM. Which sound like robot Wookies. I imagine that The Waitress/Max/Darcy would have some sort of purposely obnoxious ringtone. Ke$ha, maybe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this seems disjointed...for some reason I ran into real trouble getting this chapter out, even though not very much happens. In fact it's really only half of the original chapter I was planning, but I cut it in half so that I could get this part out and concentrate on the rest. [Come yell at me on tumblr](http://tangleofgarlands.tumblr.com) next time I'm procrastinating (which is pretty much ALWAYS).

She spends the day after the attack baking. Because, you know. That’s what normal, well-adjusted people do after aliens attack the city and they get up close and personal with the Avengers.

Neither of her parents were much on cooking, so all of her skills are completely self-taught. She learned sometime in the fifth grade, when she had a giant crush on Kenny Houseman and knew for a fact that the cake Marcia Collins was going to bring him for Valentine’s Day was store-bought. And, the way to a man’s heart being his stomach and all, she figured homemade brownies topped store-bought cake easy. 

The process hadn’t quite been smooth, as she was infamously impatient and took recipes more as guidelines. Her dad had danced around the kitchen in the frilly pink apron her Aunt Sarah had bought her for her tenth birthday, and her mom had regaled her of tales of her own childhood misfortunes in love. Both of which were admittedly hilarious, but not all too helpful in the baking department. Still, her stubbornness far outweighed her impatience, and at around four in the morning a perfect pan of brownies emerged from the oven. She had even frosted them, adding sprinkles and heart-shaped candies and his initials traced in red piping. Arranged on a pretty plate with a doily, they were a thing of beauty well worth the lack of sleep and half-destroyed kitchen. 

(As it turned out, the way to a man’s heart - or at least a fifth-grade boy’s heart - was indeed not through his stomach, but through a girl’s generous cup size. And Darcy, not due for her surprise leap into puberty for another year and change, never even got to deliver her gift before she caught wind that Kenny and Marcia were going steady by third period. 

They were broken up by the end of the day, however, due to a nasty rumor that Kenny had shit his pants on the bus ride home. Turns out, sitting in a plate of brownies can have that effect. She will go to her grave swearing that the placement of said brownies on his seat just moments before he sat down without looking was entirely accidental.)

Darcy was careful in constructing her alias when she left Puente Antiguo. Rude and standoffish, because she didn’t need people trying to get close when she felt like she could break apart at a moment’s notice. Witty and sharp because, well, that’s pretty much ingrained in her DNA. New York because it was easiest to disappear somewhere huge and anonymous, and she felt it fit her personality better than LA. Williamsburg because seriously, who would actually choose to live in Williamsburg? Williamsburg was a transitionary phase between childhood and adulthood, with hipsters desperately trying to find themselves. Darcy didn’t want to be found at all. A waitress because it was the first ad she spotted in the classified section.

And a baker because god knew she needed something to keep her sane, and there wasn’t enough booze in the world to make an effective coping mechanism without killing herself.

So she makes cupcakes, zones out and feels the rest of the world fade away. And sometimes, at night running on three hours of sleep and that panic rattling in the back of her mind finally quieted, Max can almost forget about everything - about Darcy Lewis and New Mexico and Jane and Thor and SHIELD and what the fuck she’s even doing with her life.

Sometimes, that happens. Sometimes, she forgets. At least for a few blissful hours.

Today is not going to be one of those days.

Caroline shows up at Stark Tower after the attack with blankets, water, and treats for both her and Chestnut - Chestnut gets sugar cubes, Max gets coffee. The good kind, from the Starbucks around the corner that they can’t really afford. Okay, and a few sugar cubes, too. She takes Chestnut’s reins and leads them back to the apartment, chattering nonsense the whole way. Caroline, for all her faults, is the absolute best person to have by your side when you're feeling like crap. Max complains (sometimes a lot), but Caroline has built up an immunity and mostly ignores her. She just soldiers on, chirping affirmations and treating Max a lot like she imagines her father (and various maids and nannies) did for Caroline. Tonight she just lets herself be led home without saying much of anything beyond a halfhearted token protest (which is really a testament to how exhausted and emotionally drained she is, because staying quiet is not exactly her forte.) Once there it’s all she can do to shower without drowning and collapse into bed, where sleep overtakes her the moment her head hits the pillow.

They spend the next day puttering around the apartment, doing nothing in particular. They call Han, who tells them that he’s at the hospital and doesn’t have the energy to deal with the damage right now - Oleg and Sophie are standing guard, he’ll worry about it tomorrow. They give Chestnut a much-needed bath and more treats than he probably needs. Max tries to surf the internet, or at least watch television, but all she sees - no matter what the site or channel - is yesterday’s carnage. She supposes she shouldn’t be all too surprised, but it’s frustrating nonetheless for possibly the one person in the city who _doesn’t_ want to dwell on it. There’s speculation as to what exactly happened, ridiculously fake-sounding statements from varying governmental agencies, photos, statistics, damage estimates. And, of course, page after program of opinion pieces and first-hand accounts, because everyone just has to make it about themselves and where they were when it happened, the friends they knew that were killed or injured, the glimpse they got of one of the Avengers. There are just as many news articles and TV spots dedicated to them, too - who are they, where did they come from, should we trust them. It kind of makes her head spin.

She starts baking without even really thinking about it. She swears that she goes into the kitchen just to get a cup of coffee and possibly some of the stale Doritos that they’re hoarding because they were on sale three months ago, and the next thing she knows there are red velvets coming out of the oven. Caroline takes one, Max takes two, and then sets aside the rest of the dozen to bring to Sophie later. She makes another batch (lemonade with orange frosting) before Caroline gently pries her away and steers her to the couch.

They end up watching DVD’s. Caroline makes dinner and hot chocolate, which they spike, and end the evening laughing themselves sick over bad 80’s movies. And Caroline, god bless her, doesn’t bring it up even once. Max is sure she’s filled with questions, but she doesn’t ask any of them. Even when she gets twitchy flipping past the news stations, even when her laughter rises just a tad towards manic. She lets her bury her head in the sand and pretend none of it happened, and Max thinks it’s quite possible she doesn’t deserve her. She’s been lying to her since the day they met, and yesterday was clear proof of that, yet Caroline doesn’t seem ready to bolt or demand answers. Max is selfish enough to take it at face value, because it’s easier that way.

She wakes up to an empty apartment the next morning, with a note from Caroline saying she’s gone to check on the diner. Max gives Chestnut a hug and a carrot, pours herself a glass of cheap vodka from the bottle that’s nearly empty after last night (Caroline is hangover-proof. She’s sure of it. Does that count as a superpower?), and starts baking again. It's a habit at this point, something she’s always been able to rely on, even when she was mostly limited to getting creative with mug cakes out in their trailer in the New Mexico dessert. (That Slurpee glaze was genius, thankyouverymuch.) She falters at the memory, but doesn’t stop, losing herself in the familiar rhythm of mixing and measuring. By the time Caroline comes through the door later that afternoon, there are cupcakes littering nearly every available semi-flat surface (including both of their beds and the couch), and she’s feeling almost human again.

“Hey,” she says in greeting. Caroline takes off her shoes and jacket and heads directly for the cupcakes.

"I was not built for manual labor," she moans, after devouring half of a chocolate-strawberry. 

"You didn't seem to mind it when you were building the fortress outside the diner," she reminds her. Caroline snorts.

"Please. I don't build. Do these nails look like they build?" She waves a hand, displaying chipped and worn nails, and moans theatrically. "They did not look like this this morning! That was the minions that built the fortress - I just supervised."

"I wonder if I can get away with calling them minions when the city's _not_ under attack,” Max muses. Caroline laughs.

“I have a feeling you’ll do it anyway,” she says around a mouthful of frosting.

“Yeah, but I thought about it first. That’s, like, personal growth or something.” Caroline shakes her head, polishing off the rest of her cupcake and crumpling the wrapper into a neat little ball. Max watches her fidget, watches her mouth twitch as she starts to form a sentence, then seems to think better of it. She almost starts to think she’s off the hook for the moment, until Caroline abruptly looks back up, holding her gaze, and says:

“You know I’m here whenever you’re ready to talk about…everything that happened yesterday, right? Or even if you never want to talk about it. I’m still here.” Max draws in a breath, shaky.

“Fuck,” she says. “Incoming.” 

And she hugs her. Squeezes is probably more accurate, a genuine embrace the likes of which she can’t remember the last time she gave. She wears Max’s apathy like a shield, but the truth is that Darcy has always been a tactile person. A warm hug, a pat on the shoulder, a hand to hold. These are things she didn’t realize she needed until she gave them up in the pursuit of becoming someone else, someone untouched by everything she’s seen and yet far more scarred and jaded by the world. The moment of reprieve, of slipping back into old habits and her true self, feels like a giant weight lifted from her shoulders, despite everything, and she tries not to think too hard about what it means.

Caroline stays there, and hugs her back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I keep carving up the same chapter into smaller pieces, I'm just really running into a roadblock on the last part. It makes perfect sense as a general concept in my head, but getting it down in words is proving challenging. For those of you eager for SHIELD and the Avengers to come back into the storyline, that's now going to be happening (most likely) in chapter 10. I'm excited for them to come back into play as well (and have, in fact, been working on future chapters), but the debrief with Earl is an important character moment, and I want to get it right.

I'm sorry I keep carving up the same chapter into smaller pieces, I'm just really running into a roadblock on the last part. It makes perfect sense as a general concept in my head, but getting it down in words is proving challenging. For those of you eager for SHIELD and the Avengers to come back into the storyline, that's now going to be happening (most likely) in chapter 10. I'm excited for them to come back into play as well (and have, in fact, been working on future chapters), but the debrief with Earl is an important character moment, and I want to get it right.

~*~

She goes with Caroline to the diner the next day, eager to return to any sort of normalcy - even that of a job that she mostly hates. The barricade has been dismantled, the front window boarded up and the shattered glass swept away, and there’s a handmade paper “YES, WE’RE REALLY OPEN!” sign in Caroline’s distinctive handwriting (and doodled hearts) hanging on the front door.

“You guys got this place up and running in less than 24 hours?” Max asks. She’s honestly pretty impressed.

“A little over, really,” Caroline corrects her. “Han and Oleg have been here all night getting the kitchen up and running.” The little bell over the door jingles when they enter, and inside it’s as if the invasion never happened - the only things out of place are Han and Oleg hunkered down in a booth in the far corner, cradling coffees and looking ready to pass out. Han’s arm is in a sling, his shoulder encased in bandages, and there are dark bags under his eyes. Caroline bends down to give him a hug, and after heaving a sigh Max follows suit.

“For once being short actually came in handy,” she cracks. “Anyone else and that might have been the killshot.” Han smiles blearily at both of them.

“My two favorite girls!” he exclaims happily, and leans in for another hug. Max briefly envies the painkillers he must have been given as she jumps back.

“Oh, no. I’ve been emotionally traumatized, okay?” she announces loudly. “That’s the only reason I’m willingly hugging people. Do not under any circumstances start thinking this is going to become a regular occurrence.” There’s a beat of awkward silence. As far as painfully accurate jokes she’s made, it’s fairly tame, but everyone’s still nervous and on-edge after yesterday. Okay, too soon for that kind of thing. Good to know.

“Where is my hug?” Oleg finally demands, wiggling his eyebrows with a knowing grin. “I give _very_ good hug.” Max laughs, relieved, and after that things are pretty much back to normal.

For the first several hours of the morning, it’s just the four of them crowded into the booth, talking shit and cracking bad jokes. If Han or Oleg have any inkling as to what happened yesterday, they don’t say so, and it feels like any other slow shift. She brought all of the cupcakes from yesterday, and they demolish an entire dozen before noon.

(No one has turned on the television, thank god, unlike the one in their apartment that she just can’t seem to keep herself away from despite knowing better. While Caroline was in the shower last night, she turned on CNN just long enough to learn that the SHIELD agent she banged in the alley was not just any jack-booted flunky, but a fucking Avenger. Codename Hawkeye. And that was pretty much all she needed to hear to know to turn the damn TV off again. Self-control has never been a particular strength of hers, okay?)

A few people trickle in towards lunchtime. They’re easy and low-maintenance and look at her like she just fell from heaven when she gives everyone a free cupcake with their meal. A few more people arrive later in the afternoon, and still more after that; by the time they’re ready for dinner and Max and Caroline were planning to head home, suddenly they’ve got a bigger crowd than most weekends.

“Word must travel fast,” Caroline murmurs in disbelief as two gym rats get into a legit shoving match over the last available booth. 

“Is it too late to put in my two week’s notice?” Max contemplates, but she’s already sliding the zipper of her uniform down a few inches - her tried and true method of conflict resolution between meatheads. Han is pleasant and cheerful, running the register and chatting with everyone who comes through the door ( _really_ good painkillers; that’s the only explanation.) Oleg pops a few pills of his own, something from an unmarked bottle that’s probably not legally available in the U.S., but if it keeps him awake and competent enough to make it through the dinner rush without any major fire hazards, Max is happy to pretend she didn’t see a thing. 

It reminds her of Izzy’s, the diner in Puente. On the surface, the two restaurants have little in common, from decor to cuisine to clientele, but after Loki’s destroyer leveled the town, Izzy’s was one of the few places left standing. The small staff worked around the clock to fix the place up, and by lunchtime the next day they were serving. Everyone who came in was exhausted and a bit shell-shocked, but greasy food and quiet camaraderie seemed to help soothe tensions a little, and it’s exactly the same vibe in the Williamsburg Diner right now. Except no pancakes. Izzy’s pancakes were amazing. Thor agreed with her, though Jane and Erik were tried and true waffle aficionados.

Fuck.

She doesn’t mean to dwell on it - in fact actively tries not to - but with every person that comes wandering through their door with that haunted look in their eyes, every cross-table conversation she hears where strangers commiserate about the fact that _aliens fucking exist_ , it’s like she never left New Mexico. Caroline keeps giving her concerned looks, but they’re too slammed to talk about anything other than work, much to Max’s relief. The emotional weepiness of the past 48 hours sinks to the bottom, and she pulls back on the armor of the jaded New Yorker. It is, however, somewhat negated by the fact that people are either too tired or too grateful to be alive to really engage when she bitches and snaps at them. Also Han keeps telling everyone that she’s the one who made the cupcakes, and apparently people will forgive an awful lot of attitude if they’re getting free pastries out of the deal.

By the time they finally close - well after normal business hours - Max feels like she’s ready to collapse, both mentally and physically. They hid one last cupcake for each of them under the register (the rest of the supply was depleted sometime around 7:30; there was almost a riot over the last white chocolate truffle), and they make a frosting toast as they split tips. Which were fucking _amazing_ \- nothing like a little tragedy to make people suddenly generous. Caroline is chattering excitedly about how many pairs of shoes she plans to buy from the thrift store (and how sad it is that she’s at the point where she’s excited by a _thrift store_ ) when the bell over the door jingles. Max whips her head around, ready to demand to know how the New York City education system failed someone so badly that they can’t read the word “CLOSED”, only to see that it’s Earl, wearing a sheepish smile.

“Got any of those left for me?” he asks, gesturing to the empty cupcake wrappers on the table. Max turns back around, lets the others share small talk, and wills the knot in her stomach to ease. It’s not like she actually thought she could remain in denial about this for very long, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it. She wonders briefly whatever happened to Darcy Lewis, the girl who never backed down from a challenge, but she shakes her head as Earl’s hand closes gently over her shoulder. She’s not that girl anymore.

“Feel like going for a drink?” he asks. He’s not hesitant or demanding, just quietly assessing. Max fights the urge to sigh.

“Somewhere nice,” she says, rising to stand. “And you’re buying.” Caroline gives her a little nod, and Oleg promises to get both her and Han home safely. Max’s mind boggles as they part company - if _that’s_ not a sure sign of how fucked up things are, she doesn’t know what is.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, another blatant fandom reference. Whatever. It's mostly to persuade Jaq that she should abandon ship and come join the Cult of Snark that is Clint/Darcy. (Even though our favorite archer will not reappear again until Chapter 12. ) The full story of Earl saving Eli's life was originally in the chapter, but I decided I wanted a more intimate feel between Max and Earl, so I pulled it out.
> 
> This chapter is still not exactly where I want it to be, but if I wait for that it'll basically never get published, and I need to move on to the rest of the story. So please bear with me - there's lots of fun stuff coming up. And soon - the next chapter and a half are already done, they just need some editing.

There’s still major surface damage to the roads, which crews are working around the clock to repair, but large chunks of the subway system remain operational. Max follows Earl to the station around the corner from the diner, and sits nervously beside him until he stands up three stops into Manhattan, in one of the chi-chi districts that she’s pretty sure will charge them just for breathing their air.

“Uh, I didn’t mean _this_ nice,” she says. Earl puts a hand on her back and leads her down a city block lined with trendy little boutiques and novelty shops. They pass an honest-to-god _olive-oil bar_ , seriously, who _are_ these people?

“Don’t worry,” he says, steering her confidently. There’s damage out here, too - chunks of concrete blocking the sidewalks, giant potholes, broken windows and doors. A hollowed-out building on a corner has burned almost completely to the ground. It comforts her, a little - she may feel incredibly out-of-place here, in her grimy uniform and combat boots from the Goodwill, but they were _all_ attacked. They’re _all_ trying to move on, rebuild.

Two blocks later, Earl pulls her into a dark alleyway, and she doesn’t even immediately reach for her taser (she and Caroline have matching pink ones now, with rhinestones. They’re pretty ridiculous and awesome.) Is this what alleys in nice areas are like? No rats, or druggies whacking off? She’s still marveling when Earl pulls them up to a plain, unmarked wooden door, and knocks. It’s opened a few moments later by a Hispanic guy in his mid-40s, with salt-and-pepper hair and a big smile.

“Earl!” he greets enthusiastically, and reaches out to enfold his friend in a hug.

“Eli, this is Max,” he says when they’re done manly groping each other. Max smiles as nicely as she can manage and stretches out her hand, but Eli only uses it to pull her forward into an embrace of her own.

“Okay, this whole hugging thing lately is really starting to damage my fragile psyche,” she mutters. “I may need therapy… _more_ therapy.”

“Everyone gets touchy-feely after a huge catastrophe,” Eli says, with the air of someone who has survived his share of catastrophes. “They kind of just want to convince themselves that they’re alive. Give it time; things will right themselves, people will go back to normal.” Up close, with the light spilling out from the doorway behind him, Max can see the scar above his right eyebrow, the tattoo poking out from beneath the collar of his shirt, and has a sneaking suspicion that the guy is SHIELD. She bites back a sigh as he ushers them in, and tries not to feel like she’s being led into the belly of the beast.

Except if this is what the beast’s belly looks like, then sign her up, because they’re led through a kitchen and into the main room of a very classy-looking steakhouse, with low lighting and sturdy wooden chairs and cloth napkins. Okay, so her bar for ‘classy’ is set pretty low these days, but it’s still undeniably nice. They’re shown to a booth in the corner and Eli disappears for a moment, only to bring them back two glasses of scotch.

“I’ll have one of my guys whip up an appetizer plate for you,” he says, clapping Earl on the shoulder. “Really good to see you, man.”

“Good to see you too,” Earl echoes. “Give Veronica and the kids my love.”

“Will do,” Eli promises, and retreats back to the kitchen. Max glances around for a menu, but she doesn’t really need one to know that even the appetizer plate is most likely ridiculously overpriced. Seeing her hesitation, Earl nudges her glass towards her with his knuckle.

“Eli is an old friend,” he says. “I always leave him a nice big tip, but he hasn’t let me pay him a dime since he opened this place.” Max raises an eyebrow.

“Free booze? Oh you really do know how to charm a girl.” Earl grins and takes a sip from his glass. Max does the same, and barely manages to stifle a truly obscene groan. This is _good shit_. She’s grown so accustomed to cheap swill in plastic bottles that she’d almost forgotten how alcohol is _supposed_ to taste. It’s smoky and smooth as it goes down, and tears almost leap to her eyes, because she’s pretty sure the last time she has scotch this good was the night before she left for college, out on the back porch well after midnight with her dad. She’d been too keyed up to sleep and he’d always been a night owl, so they’d taken the drinks and a pile of blankets and hunkered down on two of the chaise lounges to watch the stars. They’d downed half the bottle and fallen asleep outside, her head on his shoulder and her hand fisting in his shirt, just like she always had as a kid. Her mom hadn’t had the heart to wake them in the morning - she’d been forty-five minutes late to her freshman orientation and still slightly buzzed because of it.

Max inhales the musky aroma, takes a deep swallow, and remembers all of the girlhood things her parents told her - the things everyone’s parents are supposed to tell them, about how she could do anything she wanted, conquer the world some day. It’s silly, but it helps. Another sip and she dives right in.

“So your name really is Earl. That’s good to know. Unless Eli just knows enough to maintain cover in front of a civilian - he’s SHIELD too, right?” Earl pauses, gives her that assessing look again that’s honestly a little creepy, before finally nodding.

“Retired,” he corrects. “Same as me. Well, technically. You have 3 heart attacks - or, in Eli’s case, a titanium leg - and they tend not to want you on the front lines anymore.”

“So, what then, you got bored one day? Decided to start keeping tabs on a former lab assistant on the run?”

“More like I was the closest agent around with no other assignments. _Because I’m retired_ , not that that counts for anything. I wasn’t doing much other than making music, and even that only occasionally. I think they thought I needed something to keep myself busy so I didn’t go postal. So we engineered it that there were two open jobs somewhere right around where you had chosen to live. Remember the mob Han bought the diner from? …Not the mob.”

“If you tell me Han is a SHIELD agent, all the booze in this entire bar isn’t going to be enough.” Earl laughs.

“Please. We like our agents to have at least reached puberty.”

“So give him another six years or so?”

“Exactly. Look, after Stark outed himself as Iron Man and the Hulk destroyed Harlem-”

“Wait, that was the Hulk?” Max interrupts. She shakes her head as she takes another sip of scotch. “I _knew_ all that stuff about a military training exercise was bullshit.”

“Gotta tell the people something.”

“How about the _truth_?” Earl cocks his head, face still carefully neutral.

“Not everyone reacts well to the truth,” he responds. “The citizens left in Puente Antiguo - all of whom witnessed the same events that you, Doctor Foster, and Doctor Selvig did - believe those same cover stories.”

“That’s not fair,” she interjects. “We were scientists - we already knew something hinky was going on, that’s why we were out there in the first place.”

“Doctors Foster and Selvig are scientists,” Earl pointed out. “You, Darcy, are not.”

She pulls in a breath. Darcy Lewis is at the back of her mind every day, but it’s been so long since anyone’s actually called her that. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to answer to anything other than Max Black. Earl still holds her gaze steadily, so fucking unflappably calm that she kind of wants to punch him in the nose, just to see him make an expression. This is not the Earl that she’s worked with for the past two years - the guy sitting across from her reminds her more of Agent Coulson than anything. It must come with the badge.

Eli returns to their table laden down with two more glasses of scotch and a large plate that smells heavenly and looks even better - bacon-wrapped prosciutto, mozzarella sticks, grilled meat and veggie skewers, buffalo wings, and a little bowl of hummus surrounded by pita chips. Max reaches immediately for a mozzarella stick, vowing to take home every last uneaten morsel of this. She may share with Caroline, she may polish it off before they get to her stop tonight.

“This is amazing,” she mumbles around a mouthful. “Thank you.” Eli grins at her.

“Always nice to hear.” She levels him with her best imitation of the Blank Stare of Doom.

“So what did you do for SHIELD?” she demands. “I’m assuming you weren’t on the payroll for your culinary skills.” To his credit, Eli doesn’t appear ruffled by the question at all. (It’s possible her Stare of Doom isn’t quite up to Coulson levels yet. She’ll have to work on that.)

“I think you already know that’s classified,” he responds easily. “But if you’ve got questions, you’ve found the right person to ask.” He claps Earl over the shoulder. “This guy was my Supervising Officer for six years. Saved my life more than once. Trust me, you’re in good hands.”

“I wouldn’t have had to save your damn ass if you’d kept it out of trouble in the first place,” Earl mutters, but there’s a good-natured twinkle in his eye. Eli laughs.

“And that would be why I now spend my time screaming at incompetent sous chefs rather than chasing bad guys through jungle. More stress, but less bullets.” He squeezes Earl’s shoulder one last time. “And with that, I’ll leave you two to it. Earl, drop by the house someday, the girls would love to see you.”

“I’ll do that,” Earl promises, and Eli ambles back into the kitchen. Max devours several buffalo wings before asking: “So how did SHIELD find me, anyway?” The question gets her an incredulous look.

“Darcy, they never lost you. You’re a smart cookie, but you don’t have our resources. You turned down witness protection, did you really think they were just going to let you go?”

“How was being tied to a top secret government black ops organization supposed to keep me _out_ of harm’s way?”

“Well, for starters, there’s the fact that it’s top secret,” Earl deadpans.

“Anyone who really wanted to would have found out anyway.”

“Running away doesn’t change your past. You’ll always be tied to New Mexico and Doctor Foster. At least with SHIELD behind you, we can protect you.” Max snorts at this.

“Yeah, I’ve seen how well your ‘protection’ goes. Look outside - the city’s smashed to pieces. Why should I believe I’m going to be safe if they can’t even keep the city together? You guys have known about Loki and the Nine Realms for years now, this wasn’t completely out of the blue.”

“You can’t blame SHIELD for Loki deciding to attack,” Earl objects. He actually looks angry, defensive, and Max is just glad to be able to read _something_ on his face; she wants her friend Earl back, not government drone robot!Earl.

“No, I can’t blame them,” she agrees. “But I can judge them for dealing with the situation by throwing a fucking nuke at it. Or are we going to pretend that was someone other than SHIELD?”

“Look, I’m not saying every decision they make is perfect. But this is new territory for all of us - superheroes, aliens? Just because we know they exist doesn’t mean we know how to handle them. And you’re a part of that, whether you like it or not.”

“Well, I don’t like it! Look, I love Jane. I really do. And I love Eric, and Thor, and I’m sure the rest of the Avengers are a big hoot at Karaoke Night. But I don’t want to keep getting caught in the crossfire. I didn’t want to leave my friends and my family, I didn’t want to be dragged into this mess in the first place. I just want to keep my head down and live my life, and stop getting caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Earl leans back in the booth and folds his hands in front of him, that calculating look back on his face. “What happened when you took Agent Barton to Stark Tower?” Max blinks, startled by the change in direction.

“Huh?”

“What happened after you got there?” Earl prods. “You were still out there hours later when Caroline came to get you.”

“I, uh…I helped out,” she admits. She shrugs. “Whatever, it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Helped out how?” Earl prods. She shifts, uncomfortable.

“There were dumbasses running around about to get killed. I just showed them a few safe places to hide. It’s not like I cured cancer, anyone would have done the same thing.”

“No,” Earl insists. “No, they really wouldn’t have.” Max lets out a sigh of frustration. She’s no hero, she knows that. But she has to admit that Earl is right; most people wouldn’t have helped. Most people were the idiots running through the streets like chickens with their heads cut off - too selfish to worry about anyone’s safety but their own, and too stupid to even do anything about that.

“So what?” she says uncomfortably, with a forced shrug. Earl pins her with a look.

“So maybe it’s time to finally accept that you keep finding yourself in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time.” Max regards him for a beat, then gestures to Eli with her empty scotch glass.

“This conversation is going to require way more alcohol than I thought it would,” she mutters.

~*~

They haven’t really worked anything out by the time Earl walks her up to her apartment several hours later - she hasn’t been sworn to secrecy, nor has she agreed to come work for SHIELD. She has, however, had quite a few glasses of scotch, and Earl’s surprisingly strong grip is very nearly the only thing holding her upright as he leads her down the hallway to her door.

“Wait wait, I’ve almost got it,” Max insists. “Strategic Homeland… Invention… Embargo…something-something. Fuck.”

“Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate,” Earl rattles off. She blinks at him.

“Wait, that’s no fair, those are completely different words,” she whines.

“Tell me about it - they’ve changed that acronym so many times I don’t think even they know what it’s supposed to stand for anymore.” He taps on the door to the apartment, while Max busies herself with trying to stand up straight.

“SHIELD sucks,” she declares. “Did I tell you how they stole all of our lab equipment? _And my iPod??_ ” Earl chuckles.

“You did. Several times.” Inside, they hear Caroline undoing the bevy of locks and chains adorning their door, and Earl gently steers her towards it. “Just think about everything I said, alright?” he urges. Max waves a hand at him, mostly to get him to stop talking. It’s late, she’s tired and drunk, and if she wasn’t already emotionally drained after the past few days, this is definitely enough to put her over the top. Caroline finally opens the door, takes one look at the pair of them, and sighs.

“Have a good time?” she asks dryly. Earl grins.

“Some of us more than others.” Max holds up the styrofoam container encasing the meager remains of the appetizer plate, plus a giant piece of incredible looking chocolate cake that Eli had insisted she have.

“I brought you food!” she announces. Caroline laughs, taking her arm to guide her inside, and she almost starts to think that she’s home free. But before she can cross the threshold, Earl leans in to press a kiss against her temple. And then he lingers, to whisper in her ear:

“You have so much to offer the world, Darcy Lewis. Don’t you ever forget it.” She sighs heavily.

“I hate you,” she complains. Earl laughs as Caroline starts to fuss over her, wrestling her out of her jacket and starting to lead her to the bedroom like a small child. (To be fair, that’s about the level her motor skills are at right now.) She’s thinking about a shower and her bed, not necessarily in that order, when Earl calls her name one last time.

“When you see Nick Fury, you tell him he owes me twenty bucks,” he says, with grave seriousness. Max is still giggling when Caroline closes the door behind them.

~*~

 _She intends to leave as soon as she and Chestnut are done playing Pony Express, she really does. Without her own personal Legolas gunning from the back saddle, anywhere within the general vicinity of Stark Tower is probably not the safest place to be right now. She’s about to turn around, she swears, it’s just that…well, people are_ stupid _._

 _“What the hell are you doing?” she barks at two teenagers, cowering under the awning of a nearby storefront. They’re completely exposed, with nothing to hide behind or duck under if one of the gangly-looking blue aliens decides that they look particularly tasty. Both of the kids (both boys; go figure) stare at her, unblinking. Max sighs, and scans the surrounding area from her post atop Chestnut. “Over there - go down into the subway, and_ stay there _.”_

_“Y-yes, ma’am,” the smaller boy murmurs, tugging at his friend’s arm. Max watches them to make sure they get there safely, even though there’s little she can think to do should one of the aliens indeed decide to attack. Right now, their main efforts seem to be focused on Thor and his buddies, but there are still plenty of them left over to roam the streets - not to mention the chance of getting caught by a stray bullet or laser blast, or crushed under a car or chunk of building. Basically, she needs to take her own advice and get out of harm’s way._

_Except that she’s not going to make it down to the subway platform on Chestnut, so she’s got to turn around and head back for the streets. And that’s when she sees the idiots frozen in the middle of the chaos, looking around bewildered but making no move to get to safety. With a sigh, Max nudges Chestnut towards them._

_That’s pretty much how it goes - everywhere she turns, it’s wall-to-wall morons. She knows that she’s got an advantage when it comes to keeping a level head here, but one doesn’t really need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that trying to fight one of these things unarmed is a bad idea. And yet that’s exactly what she finds a couple of tough guys trying to do. Them she’s actually planning on leaving alone - natural selection and all - but Chestnut decides to take matters into his own hands (or hooves, she supposes) when the advancing alien spots them lurking nearby. She barely has time to process what’s happening before he’s spinning them around, then she’s in the air. Max lets out a little squeak as she accidentally drops the reins. Leaning forward, she clutches directly to the bridle, white-knuckling it until Chestnut’s back hooves return to the ground with a jolt. He wheels back around, nosing the now-limp alien body, which does not respond. Max lets out her breath in a noisy gasp._

_“Buddy, if we get through this, I swear to you I will buy you more carrots than you can possibly eat,” she wheezes, petting his mane. The macho men have run screaming in the opposite direction, no doubt in equal parts pants-wetting terror, and embarrassment that they just got their asses saved by a girl and a horse. She’s just righting herself in the saddle when she hears a voice off to her left._

_“Ma’am, you should probably get inside somewhere,” someone tells her._

_“Dude, you should probably stop calling me ma’am,” she snaps, turning Chestnut in his direction. It takes several seconds to process what she’s actually seeing. “Holy shit you’re Captain America,” she blurts. She doesn’t even bother wondering if this is really the same guy from the 40’s, because hello, they’re in the middle of an alien invasion right now. She’s willing to believe just about anything. Captain America is looking a bit worse for the wear than she remembers from those old propaganda films - he’s lost his cowl, his face is streaked with dirt and a little bit of blood, his uniform is torn, and his shield is pock-marked with bullet holes. When he meets her eyes, it’s the resigned exhaustion that she notices._

_“I’m just trying to keep everybody safe,” he says, in a small voice that tells her it’s not a task he thinks he’s up to. But hey, isn’t that what she’s here for? Last time the world ended, she was herding morons out of Puente. Same sitch, different morons today. So sue her, she doesn’t like to see people get killed._

_“I can help,” she says confidently. Captain America raises a doubtful eyebrow at her, and she grins delightedly. Sass - she likes that. “Come on Cap,” she says. “Let’s go save the world.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My local used bookstore went out of business. They replaced it with an olive oil bar. Can you tell I'm a little bitter (and also confused and saddened by humanity in general)?
> 
> My soundtrack for this chapter was Spotify's "Music to Save the World To" playlist.
> 
> In the next chapter: Steve! And a very important conversation between Max and Caroline that is not nearly as dramatic as Max was expecting. And STEVE!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s ignore how fucked up the 2 Broke Girls timeline is, shall we? Y’all have been so kind as to not address my obvious ignorance about basically anything regarding New York City that I did not see in the movies or skim on Wikipedia, so. Let’s let this one slip by just as quietly.
> 
> Also can we talk about how much I love that nearly all of the comments for the previous chapter mentioned that one petty throwaway line about the olive oil bar? You guys are awesome.

The pounding at her door comes far too early. Max groans and buries her head under the pillow but Caroline is, of course, relentless. 

“Uhhh…Max?” she calls. “Can you come out here?”

“Go ‘way!” she snaps. All she wants to do is lie in bed for several hours…maybe weeks. So sue her, a lot has happened in the last few days, she doesn’t think it’s an unfair thing to ask of the universe.

In hindsight, she should have known that SHIELD would have other plans.

“You should _really_ come out here,” Caroline insists. Max emits a frustrated scream into her pillow and untangles herself from the bedsheets, kicking clothes and dirty cereal bowls out of the way to yank open the door. A glance at the clock tells her that it’s barely past eight, and okay that’s it. She’s going to murder her roommate. That, or she won’t share any of Eli’s chocolate cake. That seems like an analogous punishment.

“ _What_?” she demands, upon entering the front room of the apartment. She spits out the word just as she realizes that the front door is open and there’s someone standing on the other side of it. Someone who is…

“Holy shit, Captain America!” she blurts out. Caroline’s eyes go wide, and she looks like she’s trying to decide whether to hide behind something, or climb the good Captain like a tree. To be fair, it’s a pretty understandable reaction. 

Captain America awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s just Steve when I’m off-duty, actually,” he insists. Max’s eyes narrow even in the face of the boyish, aw-shucks charm that she’s sure lets him get away with murder.

“But you’re not off-duty, are you?” she challenges. He gives a half-shrug that does beautiful things to his muscles. It should be flat-out illegal for any human being to look that good in simple jeans and a t-shirt. 

“I’m not acting as Cap right now, but I am here on behalf of SHIELD,” he admits. Max snorts.

“I’m surprised it took them this long.”

“That would be because of me, actually. I told them to cut you some slack for a few days, let you recover. You’re not an agent, you didn’t sign up for this. But Miss Lewis, we really do need to debrief you.” Max cuts her eyes over to Caroline, who is still watching the entire exchange with wide, disbelieving eyes, but she doesn’t seem particularly fazed by the ‘Miss Lewis’. You know, aside from the fact that Captain Steve America is hovering in the doorway of their ramshackle apartment, still managing to look like a supermodel even with the awkward side-to-side shuffle he’s doing, while she wears the John Deere footie pajamas she bought for $3 at the thrift store as a joke but secretly loves.

“And if I decide that I’d really rather not?” She knows the answer, but she has to ask anyway. Steve just smiles, almost like he’d anticipated her reluctance.

“You’re welcome to go into hiding again,” he offers. “But somehow I have a feeling trouble would find you anyway.” Ugh. Just what she needs - another Earl. She sighs, noisy and put-upon.

“Fine. Go wait downstairs, I’ve got to talk to my friend.” Steve swings his gaze around to Caroline, who still hasn’t moved, and then back to Max.

“You are actually planning on coming out, right?” he asks warily. “I’m not going to have to come back and pull you out of here under protest?” 

“I’m already coming under protest, I figure I’ll spare what’s left of my dignity,” she promises. Steve pauses, and she rolls her eyes. “What, do you want me to salute you?” He cracks a grin.

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Lewis. I’ll see you downstairs in…?”

“You’ll see me downstairs when I’m good and ready.” He chuckles, and finally turns to disappear back down the hall. There’s a pregnant pause that follows, which quickly stretches into perhaps the most awkward awkward silence ever. Max adopts Steve’s nervous fidgeting before finally taking a deep breath and looking over at Caroline.

“So. We should probably talk, huh?” Caroline is still shell-shocked, staring at the door.

“That was seriously Captain America,” she breathes in awe. “Like, the real, _actual_ Captain America.” 

“I’m assuming. He seems like the real deal, at least, but I don’t really know for sure - I just met the guy yesterday.” She pauses, out of habit, but she’s been avoiding this conversation for days and there’s never been a better opportunity. “Here, come sit down,” she says, gesturing to the kitchen stools. Caroline takes a seat, and she starts digging through the fridge for ingredients. They’ve both eaten way too many cupcakes in the last few days, but she can do an omelet. It doesn’t really matter, it’s just something to keep her hands occupied. “How much of the news have you watched?”

“A lot,” Caroline confesses. “We turned the TV on in the diner the day of the attack. And for a little bit the next day, but they were mostly just re-running the same footage over and over again.”

“Right, so, the flying guy with the cape and the lightning hammer? He’s kind of a friend.” Caroline blinks.

“Uh. Okay. Processing. You’re friends with superheroes. Okay.”

“Actually, Thor’s an alien,” she adds helpfully. Caroline is blinking rapidly now, hands twisting together, so she shoves a glass of juice in front of her. “Okay, let’s start with the easy stuff. Um…my name isn’t actually Max Black.” Caroline smirks.

“Well, I knew that,” she says. Max’s jaw drops. 

“How…” Caroline waves her hand in the air dismissively.

“Please. I sorted all your bills and filed your taxes, didn’t you think I’d notice that half of your old statements were addressed to Darcy Lewis? For the record, I knew about Earl working for SHIELD, too.” Max drops the egg she’s about to crack, sending it to the floor with a dull splat.

“You are starting to scare me,” she says honestly. Caroline shrugs.

“I had no idea you were connected to them - I just saw the company name on Earl’s retirement fund, and I looked them up out of curiosity. Didn’t find much outside of internet rumors and documents with 75% of the content blacked out - I just know they’re a top secret government agency. They weren’t listed on any of your bills or paystubs.” 

“Super top secret,” Max agrees, wiping up the egg mess. “And no, I never worked for them. I took an internship with a physicist for some extra science credits during college. Turns out she’s not your average physicist, she’s the crazy, discovering-other-planets type. And…we kind of discovered one. Or, rather, it discovered us, I guess. Thor - that’s the guy with the hammer-”

“I know who Thor is,” Caroline interrupts in her _I went to Wharton_ voice. “I suppose if aliens and Captain America are real, I really shouldn’t be surprised that mythological deities are real, too.”

“Well long story short, he ended up on Earth, without his powers, and then his crazy brother came after him. Thor chased him back home, but I guess things didn’t end so well, because he was the one behind the attack the other day. So I don’t really know where that leaves me. Or any of us. I just figured it was time to come clean, since I’m clearly getting pulled back into everything again.” She focuses on the omelet, drops in cheese and onions and lets everything firm up in the pan. When it’s done, she cuts it in half and slides it onto two plates. Caroline barely pokes at her share when it’s set in front of her, and Max feels something churn at the pit of her stomach that’s more than just hunger.

“Are you…okay with all of this?” she asks quietly, dreading the answer. It’s been hard for her to open up to people since leaving New Mexico - more attachments meant more lies she had to tell, so it was easier not to form them in the first place. But Caroline is the first person that hasn’t let her bullshit and attitude chase her away. She always knew that it was unfair to let her get so far in without telling her the truth, but it was for both of their safeties that she kept it hidden. And the thought that it could destroy them now, could send Caroline running, well…it’s kind of more than she can handle, and with the things she’s seen lately, that’s really saying something.

“I mean no, I’m not really okay with evil aliens trying to kill people,” Caroline says after a moment. “And it’s probably going to take awhile to sink in that this is all really happening.” Max does her best to keep her face neutral as she concentrates on eating her breakfast, but Caroline must read something there when she glances up from her own, because she reaches out and puts her hand over Max’s. “I’m okay with you, though,” she promises, and god but Max hates the way her voice breaks when she asks:

“Are you sure?” Caroline’s smile in response is warm and genuine, and she hops off of her stool to wrap Max up in a hug. It’s probably the first and only time she doesn’t even think to complain, just squeezes her back.

“I always knew something was up with you, that you weren’t really telling me the whole truth, but that’s okay. Hell, I wasn’t planning on telling you about my father until you figured it out on your own. But it doesn’t matter if your name is Max, or Darcy, or Lula, or Frank - that doesn’t change anything that we’ve been through over the past two years, and it doesn’t change the fact that you’re my best friend.” Fuck, she’s crying. Feeling the tears on her neck, Caroline pulls back in surprise.

“Max…” she starts, but she waves a hand in front of her face.

“No. We shall never speak of this again,” she commands, wiping at her eyes. Caroline looks like she wants to say something, but at Max’s glare she snaps her mouth shut.

“Of course,” she says finally. “We shall never at any time acknowledge that you have real feelings like a big girl.”

“Exactly.” Max waves a fork at her. “Now eat your breakfast.”

~*~

“So how much of what you’ve told me is true?” Caroline asks once they’re both fed, showered, and dressed. Max feels almost naked with her hair pulled back and very little makeup, but it’s the first time in a long time she hasn’t felt the need to apply her Strawberry Gashes lipstick like armor. She’s dressed down in one of her old flannel shirts, comfortable, and if she breathes in deep she almost swears it still smells like the dry desert air. 

(Caroline, naturally, felt that the trip to Stark Tower warranted more planning and preparation than the invasion of Normandy, and dug out one of the super-fancy outfits they liberated from the townhouse. Max filled her in from the couch as she waited, told her about things like Chestnut’s thrilling heroics. Of course, she may have left some bits out. Like the part where she fucked Hawkeye in an alleyway, but. Details.)

“I mean, at least I know now where your obsession with getting abducted by aliens comes from,” Caroline continues, “but what about the other stuff? Have you ever actually been to jail?” Max laughs.

“No. But I have had to bail my mom out.” Caroline raises an eyebrow. “Political protest - swear to god.”

“Okay, did you really live in a car?”

“RV. For about three months.”

"You said you collected uranium tubes from the side of the railroad tracks one summer.”

“Uh, no. But I’m sure I was exposed to it at some point working in the lab with Jane.”

“You’ve been shot at twice at a 7-11.”

“It was a near thing - do _not_ get between frustrated townies and the last strawberry Slurpee, trust me.”

“You got fired from 8 Dairy Queens.”

“It was only 3, and fuck those guys.”

“The various teachers and coaches you claim to have dated.”

“Okay, so that may have been more wishful thinking…what? I have a thing for older guys, so sue me.”

“Pregnant girl that pulled a knife on you at an ice rink.”

“Happened to a friend of mine in high school. Which, I mean - don’t flirt with a teenage pregnant girl’s baby daddy, doesn’t everyone know that? There’s enough hormones there that the Dalai Lama would have responded with a knife.”

“That guy from my dad’s cell block that said you two blew up a Chipotle together.”

“That guy is a legit whack job, and also I told him to blow up the building next door. Who wants to blow up a Chipotle, seriously? It’s not my fault he hung around stealing cases of nachos from the storage room and got caught.” 

“See, now I can’t tell if you’re actually bullshitting me or not,” Caroline says. 

“That’s the truth, honestly.”

“So you were blowing up buildings because…?” Max sobers.

“Because the building next to the Chipotle was my town’s DMV. And as much as I wanted to blow up a DMV just because, you know, it’s the fucking DMV…I was trying to get rid of my old records, of Darcy Lewis. It…seemed like a good idea at the time? It’s not like I stand by the decision, but nobody exactly trained me to hide my identity, so I was kind of making it up as I went along.”

“And yet with skills like that, you were still able to get a credit card in Max Black’s name,” Caroline says incredulously.

“I know, right? Someone at VISA should _definitely_ be fired.”

Max is still holding out a vain hope that Steve has gotten bored and left by now, pointless as that may be. Sure enough, he’s waiting patiently by the door when they spill out onto the street. Leaning against the brick exterior in his bomber jacket and aviators, he seriously looks like something straight out of the pages of GQ. Max grins at the noise Caroline makes behind her and silently concurs.

“She’s coming with me,” she announces. Steve looks over at Caroline, who makes the noise again.

“Stark Tower is pretty secure, I don’t know if they’re going to let you in,” he says, sounding sincerely apologetic about the whole thing. Max snorts with a wave of her hand.

“Tony Stark can suck it,” she declares, and a wide, genuine smile breaks out across Steve’s face.

“Oh, we’re going to get along so well,” he replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack for this chapter: Jack Off Jill “Strawberry Gashes”.
> 
> Coming up next: Caroline has a fangirl moment, and Tony Stark is a dick (to no one’s surprise).


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was bored, and I decided to give Teen Wolf a shot.
> 
> Guys, seriously. If you ever plan on doing anything productive ever again in your life, DON'T START WATCHING TEEN WOLF. That show is fucking CRACK, and it has completely taken ahold of my brain. And my tumblr. And my LIFE. I've legit watched the entire series twice already. It's bad.

Caroline keeps quizzing her all the way to Stark Tower. Steve observes them, amused, but is either being polite or enjoying the show and thus stays silent.

“You burned off your eyebrows and had to draw them in with magic marker.”

“Oh, that totally happened. Jane blew up the lab. It was epic.”

“You went to a father/daughter dance with your mom’s weed dealer.”

“My mom’s weed dealer is my Uncle Nick, so technically that’s true. He got the munchies after like an hour and we spent the rest of the night at Taco Bell prank calling my asshole cousins.”

“You were a lifeguard at a crack house.” Max blinks.

“Uh…what?”

“You told me you were a lifeguard at a crack house,” Caroline repeats.

“I…did I really?”

“You did.”

“…That doesn’t even make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t. Not even slightly. That may have been a clue that you…well, let’s just say that you’re a gifted storyteller.”

“Yeah, well, what about the day you hung out with the stoners in high school for street cred? Because we all know _that’s_ a lie.” Caroline looks outraged for about ten seconds before she sighs.

“Yeah, okay, fine,” she admits. She pauses, then glances over. “What about that necklace you wear every day? I always wanted to ask you, but I just assumed you would make something up.” Max looks down, taking the chain into her hand and toying with the small charms.

“My mom gave it to me when I turned sixteen,” she confesses. “We’re actually really close. Or, we were.”

“So all that stuff about her being abusive and neglectful?”

“It was a running gag in our family, that neither of my parents really knew how to parent. In a way it’s kind of accurate, because I wasn’t exactly planned, but they’re actually both pretty awesome.” Caroline smiles, and before Max can stop her, she’s leaning over for a hug. Again. Really? Weren’t they done with the hugging by now?

“That makes me really happy to hear,” Caroline says warmly, and she makes a face in response.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, stop, you’re making Captain America uncomfortable.” Which is actually true, as he’s shifting against the leather and trying to look away in the small space of the backseat.

“Just Steve, please,” he insists. Caroline giggles nervously now that she remembers he’s right there, but leans over to offer her hand.

“Hi, we haven’t actually been introduced. I’m Max’s… Darcy’s roommate, Caroline.” Steve shakes politely.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Caroline,” he responds. On any other guy it would probably seem like a line, but Steve is just so _earnest_ about it. About everything. Even before she ran, before New Mexico, Max had always been a bit of a cynic (though she insists that ‘realist’ is more accurate). And now, having spent the last few years of her life in the heart of the New York City hipster district, well… she’d kind of forgotten that people as genuine as Steve existed. It’s a breath of fresh air, especially when combined with his dry wit. It’s possible SHIELD isn’t all she’s built it up to be in her mind, if Captain Steve is any indication.

Except that the next person she meets is Tony Stark and, well, she’s not all that impressed. Her bar for hot billionaires is set pretty high, after all, being personal friends with Martin Channing and everything.

Their driver, the aptly-named Happy, drops them right in front of the lobby of Stark Tower. Steve leaps out first and comes around to hold the door open, offering them both an unnecessary but very sweet helping hand. Caroline blushes scarlet as she lets her hand linger in Steve’s far longer than necessary, and an answering flush creeps along the back of his neck. 

“Oh brother,” Max mutters.

The lobby is… well, pretty much exactly what you’d expect the lobby of Stark Tower to look like. Sleek and modern, lots of black leather and technogadgets. Ostentatious is the word that comes to mind, and she doesn’t realize she’s said it out loud until Caroline mutters beside her:

“ _Overcompensating_ is more like it.” Steve chokes back a laugh and guides them over to the security checkpoint. He goes through a thumbprint recognition pad and retinal scanner, and is waved through. They look up Darcy Lewis, scheduled to meet with Nick Fury, and she’s made to go through the same rigmarole - even though she knows for a fact that they don’t have any of her biometric info in their databases, she was quite clear about that back in Puente Antiguo. When the security guard apologizes to Caroline that she isn’t allowed through, she smiles, unfazed.

“Is Mr. Stark here?” she asks, in a saccharine tone.

“Last I heard. Though he does tend to hide out in his lab or take off in his suit without warning, so it’s kind of hard to know for sure.”

“Well would you please ask him to come down? Tell him Caroline Channing is here to see him.” 

“Hold up, you _know_ Tony Stark?” Max exclaims. Caroline shrugs demurely.

“He ran in the same circles as my father - we used to see him at parties and charity events. And he used to creepily hit on me when I was like sixteen, so I figure he owes me.”

They wait for nearly half an hour - Max is pretty sure Tony is doing to them exactly what they tried to do to Steve this morning. But there’s a reason that didn’t work, and between the three of them he’s probably underestimated the pure level of stubborn he’s up against. Steve calls to push back the meeting with Fury, who - if the shouting she hears through the receiver is any indication - lives up to his name as fully as their driver. Steve puts up with it without batting an eyelash. He waits for a pause in Fury’s tirade, then informs him that it’s Tony’s fault. She doesn’t hear any more from the phone speaker, and Steve snaps it shut with a satisfied smile. Mere moments later, Tony Stark strides across the lobby, looking decidedly put-upon. Max and Steve have stepped back across the security checkpoint in solidarity, and Caroline rises gracefully from the bench they’re all three resting against when he approaches them.

“Mister Stark, how lovely to see you,” she says politely. Tony blinks at her, not taking her outstretched hand, so she lowers it and gives him a faux sympathetic look. “Caroline Channing,” she says, gesturing towards herself. “It’s been years, and there were so many other young girls such as myself on the charity circuit. I’m sure you had your hands full.” There’s so much bite and sarcasm in her words that Max wants to cry, she’s so proud. Tony clearly registers this undercurrent, and he looks Caroline up and down as a smile begins to creep across his face.

“My hands were full of quite a few things back then,” he acknowledges. “You’re Martin’s daughter, right?” Caroline juts her chin out, the way she always does when someone brings up her father.

“Yes, that’s right,” she agrees. “He’s indisposed right now, as you’ve most likely heard, but I’m sure he’d send his regards if he knew I’d be running into you.” Tony cocks his head to the side.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company today, Miss Channing?” he asks. Caroline gestures towards Max and Steve.

“I’m with them,” she says simply. Tony looks from one to the other, sighing when his eyes land on Steve.

“Of course you are,” he responds with a long-suffering sigh. “Cap, don’t you have anyone else to bother?”

“Miss Lewis has an appointment with Director Fury,” Steve provides, not rising to Tony’s needling. Miss Lewis stands up next to Caroline.

“And I’m not coming in without her, so unless you want to be the one to tell Fury that, you should probably just let her in. Also because your fancy CEO girlfriend probably wouldn’t be all too thrilled about you trying to get into her pants when she was underage.”

There’s a laugh and the clicking of high heels coming in from their left, and then Pepper Potts is slipping into place beside Tony, simultaneously balancing a tablet, a Blackberry, a file folder, and two cups of coffee, while making the entire thing look effortless.

“I think there’s very little about Tony’s proclivities that would surprise me at this point,” she says with a knowing look, shoving one of the coffees into his hand. “Drink this and be quiet,” she demands, turning to the trio on the bench. Tony takes this opportunity to make a face behind her back, one very much akin to a pouting toddler. Max suspects she knows quite well what he’s doing, but is simply ignoring him. Pepper shifts all of her belongings to one arm, squeezes Steve’s shoulder in greeting, then holds out her hand to the girls.

“Darcy Lewis? It’s lovely to meet you. Doctor Foster speaks very highly of you. As does Steve here.” She’s not going to get choked up at the first part of that, she’s _not_ , so she focuses instead on the second.

“Is the Captain America Seal of Approval something I can put on a resume?” she asks Steve, who deadpans:

“Right under ‘Awards and Recognitions’. Remind me and I’ll get you the official stamp.”

“And it was Caroline Channing, correct?” Pepper continues. “I remember your father well, he was quite charming. I’m sorry to hear he fell on hard times, I’m sure that must have been very difficult on all of you.” When Caroline doesn’t answer, Max looks over to see her clutching Pepper’s hand, shaking silently but not releasing her grip. Pepper just goes with it, far too polite to pull away. Max, having no such qualms, elbows her in the ribs until she startles and yanks her hand back.

“You’re Pepper Potts,” she breathes. Pepper smiles.

“That I am,” she agrees. Caroline flaps her mouth open and closed a few times, searching for words, before finally settling on:

“You’re _Pepper Potts_.” Pepper Potts turns to throw a smirk in Tony’s direction.

“Nice to know I’m the one making young girls speechless for once,” she says in amusement, then whips out her Blackberry and starts tapping keys one-handed. “Caroline, if you’ll just allow security a few moments to get you set up with a visitor’s badge, you’re more than welcome to accompany Darcy. You won’t be able to be with her in the meeting itself, of course, for security purposes, but you’ll have access to all of the public areas. Help yourself to a coffee or a sandwich in the cafe, our treat.”

“I can keep her company while she waits,” Steve volunteers, then glances hesitantly over at Caroline. “That is, if you would have me,” he offers gallantly. Max has to bite her lip, _hard_ , to stop the wisecrack that’s threatening its way out of her. Caroline, of course, just smiles up at him.

“That would be lovely,” she replies. Pepper smiles.

“Well. Everything seems to be settled, then.” Her eyes narrow, and she turns her attention back to Tony. “You. Upstairs, my office. You have paperwork that you’ve been avoiding for two weeks, and after the stunt you just pulled, you’ll be lucky if Fury doesn’t send you more out of pure spite.” Tony grumbles, but Max doesn’t miss the twinkle in his eye as he lets Pepper herd him out, clucking disapprovingly. His hand skates across the small of her back as the elevator doors slide shut in front of them. The guard at the security desk hands Caroline a tablet with a few pages of electronic forms to fill out, and Max crowds at her side as she does so.

“ _What_ was that?” she demands. Caroline blushes furiously, and busies herself with typing in her full name, birth date, address.

“That was _Pepper Potts_ ,” she breathes. Max makes a sound of annoyance.

“So I gathered. I’m pretty sure she’s gathered that at some point, too, but it didn’t stop you from repeating it to her ad nauseum.” Caroline looks up from the tablet, eyes wide.

“Pepper Potts graduated top of her class, had the balls as a secretary to point out an accounting error to the head of the company, and got promoted on the spot. Now she’s one of the youngest CEO’s in history, and one of only a handful of women to ever reach that position. When she came to speak at Wharton, she completely sold out the largest lecture hall in a matter of minutes. I’ve idolized her for as long as I can remember - I have pictures of her all over my vision board, have you never even looked at it?”

“No, I haven’t,” Max confesses, and Caroline actually looks hurt.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a _vision board_. Steve, help me out here,” she implores. Steve shakes his head.

“I don’t know what a vision board is, but I’m with Caroline on this one,” he says, and Caroline fucking _beams_ at him, oh my god she is going to throw up. “Miss Potts is one of the most frighteningly efficient people I have ever known. And keep in mind that most of my social circle has either been military or SHIELD.” Max flops back down to the bench with a sigh.

“Unbelievable. Superheroes don’t get more out of you than a few blank stares, but a power suit and stilettos and you’re a puddle on the floor.”

“Max those were _Ferragamos_. They cost more than we make in a year - _combined_. So yeah, I find that way more impressive than a guy in a robot suit.”

As promised, it’s just a few minutes until security prints off a visitor’s badge. Caroline makes a face at having to clip it to her blouse, muttering about crushing the fabric, but at the officer’s glare she does it anyway (albeit with a pronounced sigh). She goes through the fingerprint-and-retina-scanner dance, and then the three of them are heading for the bank of elevators at the very back of the lobby. Max scans the directory, but huge chunks of floors are unlabelled and there’s nothing indicating SHIELD. For confidentiality, she assumes, but it doesn’t do her all that much good. Luckily, they have Steve, who gestures them inside and hits a button for one of the middle floors.

“The residences are up top,” he explains. “Tony’s got a Research and Development department that takes up most of the lower floors, as well as the basement. Then SHIELD has a few floors, and the rest are Stark Industry offices and storage.”

“Nice. And where’s the floor they use to dispose the bodies of those that _knew too much_?”

“That’s in the sub-basement, right above the mass grave. Stark Industries is nothing if not efficient.” Max grins. Maybe it’s all of the propaganda and textbooks she read about him growing up, because she’s only really known the guy a day, and learned in that time that the real Captain America is nothing like what the history books claim. Regardless, there’s something about him that sets her at ease. She feels comfortable around him in a way that she seldom does around much of anyone, even going into a situation like the one she’s headed for with Fury. It’s nice to have someone in here on her side, is all.

The elevator arrives at Floor 32 with a quiet ding, and the doors open to a fairly generic-looking reception desk. Max has to admit, she’s a little disappointed - for SHIELD, she had assumed there would be (at the _very_ least) armed guards. With laser blasters. Maybe some sort of wizard with a riddle she had to solve before being allowed passage. Instead there’s a blonde in her mid-40’s sitting at a desk, typing and answering phones. At least the computer is a fancy Stark Tech model, though this still in no way placates Max’s high expectations. They’ve barely stepped out into the room when a stern-looking brunette comes striding over to them.

“Hey Maria,” Steve says, and her face softens. Because of course it does, Steve could make Grumpy Cat smile. Still, Maria’s greeting doesn’t extend beyond a nod. She turns to the girls.

“Which one of you is Darcy Lewis?” she asks. Max is absolutely not imagining the sub-basement when she raises her hand meekly. Maria nods, then turns to Caroline. Perhaps bolstered by meeting her girlcrush in the lobby, Caroline does not wither beneath her gaze the way mere mortals probably should. “I don’t know what you were told elsewhere, but you are not authorized to be on this floor,” she says. She’s firm, but not necessarily unkind about it. Max has great respect for her already, because she herself has never really had great luck with toning down the bitchiness.

“I just came for support, I’ll head back downstairs now,” Caroline promises, and hugs Max quickly. “Will you be okay?” she asks. Max rolls her eyes out of habit, even though she’s quietly panicking at the thought of being left alone in here.

“Yes, mom, you can drop me off at school and go do pilates with the other parents, I promise not to crap my pants or steal another kid’s lunch money.” She never loves Caroline more than when she ignores her sarcasm, and right now is no exception, because her response is simply to squeeze her hand tighter.

“Text me if you need anything,” she says firmly. “I won’t leave the building until you’re done, I promise.” Steve extends his arm, letting Caroline slip her hand into the crook of his elbow, and she shoots Max a look that’s equal parts trepidation and excitement. They’re waiting for the elevator doors to open again when heavy footfalls precede a new addition to the room.

“Captain Rogers,” he booms. “Why the hell is a there a civilian on a secure SHIELD floor?” Max revises her earlier statement, because there is apparently a person that Steve cannot charm. If Grumpy Cat took human form, it would be the guy with the eyepatch and the black leather trench coat standing before them.

“Please tell me that’s not Nick Fury,” she mutters to Steve, but the reception area is small and there’s no way to be discrete about it. 

“You can blame Tony for that,” Steve says to his boss, barely-contained glee hiding behind his words. Nick Fury heaves a put-upon sigh.

“I don’t have the fucking time for this,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly before pointing to Steve and Caroline. “You two, out.” He turns the finger to Max. “You, in my office.” Only Steve moves, gently tugging Caroline along, but she is having second thoughts about leaving and Max is having second thoughts about… well, all of this. Fucking Loki, man - if he had just kept his shit in Asgard, she could be dealing with rude customers at the diner right now. She never thought she’d see the day that she was wishing for Han, Oleg, salmonella burgers, and drunk bachelorettes on scavenger hunts, but all of that sounds far more appealing than anything happening right here. Nick Fury is not having any of their hesitation, however. 

“Now!” he barks, and there’s really nothing to do but obey. She watches anxiously as Caroline and Steve disappear into the elevator. Before the doors are even fully closed, Fury gestures her to follow, and she trots along behind him like a scared puppy as he leads her past reception and into a maze of corridors. If she’s going to be a SHIELD super-spy, she’s going to need a hell of a lot of training, because she’s pretty sure she’s supposed to be able to memorize all the twists and turns they took before Fury opens a door that looks identical to all of the other ones, and she totally does not. Once she steps inside, however…

Okay, this. _This_ is what she had imagined SHIELD would be like. It’s clearly an office that they’re in, but there’s the sense that with very little effort, it could be turned into a terrifyingly effective interrogation room. It’s very Spartan - lots of steel and chrome, with little in the way of creature comforts. No knick-knacks, no framed photos. There are no less than six guns hanging on the back wall, and an absolutely ridiculously large knife sits off to the side of the desk, half-buried under paperwork, as if it were just another item on the agenda. Sign form A, sign form B, commit murder, sign form C.

Oh, she is _so_ ending up in the mass grave, isn’t she?

“Did you want to sit?” Fury asks. It’s traditionally a courteous thing to say, but courteous is absolutely the last word she’d use to describe the way it comes out of his mouth - like she’s a moron for still being standing. And okay, he may have a point there. She makes sure to check for assorted weaponry before taking a seat in one of the uncomfortable metal chairs. They’re set low to the ground, whereas Fury’s desk and chair are higher up, making her feel like a small child. The sun is coming in through the window behind him, but it does little to make the room more inviting - instead, it silhouettes him, making it difficult to make out his facial expressions clearly, and she’s pretty certain that he planned it this way. For someone reason, that makes her relax a little - imagining this scary-ass behemoth of a man hunched over floor plans with an interior decorator, plotting the best way to deliberately intimidate people. 

Kind of like that bully in the eighth grade that they found out wore lifts in his shoes. But she is of course never going to mention that ever in relation to Nick Fury; mass grave and all.

"I’m going to dispense with the bullshit, Miss Lewis,” he says, and she has to stop a bubble of laughter from escaping her at the thought of him ever attempting small talk. “Loki has attacked Earth twice, and both times you were right in the thick of things. You have ties to SHIELD, you know things that a lot of our operatives don’t even know; yet you’ve made it clear that you have no interest in our organization, not even being under its protection. That kind of puts us between a rock and a hard place, now doesn’t it?”

“I didn’t ask to be involved,” she says immediately. “Either time.”

“Yeah, but who gives a shit?” Fury responds. “You were anyway.” She blinks. Well. They really were dispensing with the bullshit, weren’t they? “Look as far as I see it, you’ve got two options here. You’ve got an opportunity that most people would kill for - an open door into a huge organization whose job is, for lack of a better description, to save the world.” He stops, looking at her expectantly, so she prompts:

“And what’s my second option?” She has a feeling that if she hadn’t asked, he wouldn’t have bothered telling her. He roots around in his desk drawer for a moment before pulling out a thick file folder.

“This is a non-disclosure agreement,” he says. “Sign it, and you can walk away, pretend all of this never happened.” She narrows her eyes.

“What’s the catch?” she asks, once again unimpressed by the way he withholds information.

“The catch is that you sever all ties. SHIELD doesn’t play half-assed, Miss Lewis. You are either on our team, or you aren’t. This isn’t a part-time job that you can float in and out of.” She pauses, letting all of this sink in. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be a great asset to us,” Fury says, as blandly as if he were ordering dinner. “And Doctor Foster certainly agrees.” It takes a second for it to click, connect with Pepper’s comment earlier.

“Wait, Jane’s in New York?” she blurts out, eyes wide.

“Not at the moment. When we learned that Loki had returned, she was sent to a high-security research facility in Norway. For her own protection.”

“There’s no way Jane would have left in the middle of all of this,” she argues immediately. “Not if she knew Thor was coming back, and especially not if it would give her an opportunity to collect more data on inter-dimensional travel.” Fury’s facial expression doesn’t change at all, but she doesn’t need it to. She knows Jane, and the girl may be small, but she is as stubborn as a mule. “You didn’t tell her,” she deduces. “Oh my god. Where is Thor, I want to talk to him.” She’s ready to tear this fucking place apart to find him, but Fury stops her before she can march out the door and start her search.

“Thor took Loki back to Asgard to be sentenced for his crimes. He did not indicate to us when he planned to return.” All of the air leaves her, and she slumps back into the chair, not even noticing anymore how uncomfortable it is to sit in - all she can think about right now is Jane.

“He was here and gone, and you _didn’t tell her_? How could you _do that_?” She means for it to come out more forcefully, angry and indignant, but all she can muster is disbelief. Her heart thuds dully in her chest as she imagines how Jane is going to react when she finds out. 

“Thor didn’t seem to have quite the negative reaction.” There’s a hint of defensiveness in Fury’s voice, almost undetectable. It’s possible she’s imagining it, but she doubts it; it was the wrong fucking call and he knows it.

“Well of course he didn’t. Thor loves Jane, he would rather her be safe any day. And I can guaran-damn-tee you she’s going to have words with him when - _if_ he manages to find his way back to Earth again. But you and your agents don’t get to act like an overprotective boyfriend. You don’t get to decide what people should or shouldn’t know - I mean do you not see why I’ve spent the last two years running? I am not about to hand my life over to people who think and treat people like that.”

“The second option is still available,” Fury points out. “Though be forewarned, there is a clause that prevents you from seeking out former SHIELD contacts.” She gapes.

“Meaning I can’t ever talk to Jane again?”

“Meaning that you already know more than any civilian, and that makes you a security risk. If you decide to sever ties with SHIELD, then your contact with current operatives and associates will be limited in order to minimize that risk.”

“So you’re giving me an ultimatum,” she sums up. “Jane or my fucking freedom.” Fury shrugs.

“If that’s how you choose to see it,” he says placatingly. (This must be where Earl learned it. The thought does not do much to reassure her about anything.)

She can’t deal with this right now. Ignoring Fury’s protests behind her, she gets up and walks calmly out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: the return of Clint Hawkguy Barton! That's enough of a teaser in itself, right?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're ever wondering 'is that a vague reference to...?', let's just assume at this point that the answer is yes. 
> 
> Sorry about the delay. I am so bad at knowing when to STOP EDITING and post the damn thing. There are still sections I think need work, and dialogue is never going to be my strong suit, but as usual if I keep obsessing like this it'll never get published. So here is Clint and Darcy bonding, because I've been up for damn near 5 hours trying to win advance Winter Soldier tickets, and sleep deprivation is apparently the key to turning off my inner editor.
> 
> (PS, over THREE HUNDRED KUDOS?? I've NEVER had a response like that to anything I've written, you guys are amazing.)

When Clint finds her up on the roof, she tells him her name is Darcy.

“If you see a young brunette, Fury’s looking for her,” Natasha says when he passes her in the hall.

“Any particular young brunette, or did he just have a craving?” Nat’s eyebrow twitches in that way that means she’s holding back laughter.

“Foster’s intern, Darcy Lewis.” 

“And what, she slipped her leash?”

“I gather Fury pissed her off, and she disappeared on him.”

“Fury? But he’s got such great people skills,” Clint deadpans. Natasha actually quirks a smile this time.

“Pot and kettle, Barton - none of us have people skills.” Which… okay, point. A gaggle of agents passes them in the corridor, and the one at the rear of the group sneaks a curious glance at Clint. He bites back a snarl as Natasha presses her shoulder into his chest under the guise of giving the team room to pass. 

“Don’t,” she warns. He grunts in acknowledgment, but his muscles remain rigid.

“Are they combing the building?”

“Pretty much. It’s not an official search party or anything - mostly because I don’t think Fury wants to admit that a civilian gave him the slip - but he’s got several teams looking.” 

“Great. Seeya later,” Clint mutters. He was headed to the range, but that’s all the way on the other side of the building. Usually, this wouldn’t be a problem - it’s the middle of the day, everyone is in their offices or out in the field. And it’s not that he’s necessarily avoiding people, but… okay, he’s avoiding people. SHIELD agents are embarrassingly avid gossips, and he’s unsurprisingly been the main topic of conversation ever since Loki stole both the Tesseract and his control over himself. He would have thought that trained agents, used to all varieties of supervillain madness - mind control was not exactly a new-fangled invention, after all - would recognize that these things happen on occasion. He’d snapped out of it (or been snapped out of it, rather - he’s still got a nasty lump on his forehead thanks to Tasha’s ever-gentle bedside manner), and he’d kicked _ass_ during the Chitauri invasion. Seriously, is no one remembering that he took out a fucking space whale all by his lonesome? Him, the very breakable human without superpowers or high-tech armor?

He sees it in the stares and whispers that line his trips down the hallway, the conversations that stop abruptly the second he enters the room, the sidelong looks of wariness when he picks up a bow. Nat keeps telling him to ‘just ignore it’, as if he’s a ten-year-old who doesn’t know how to deal with playground bullies. It’s pretty much what he does regardless, though some (Natasha) might be more apt to describe it as hiding. He only comes into the Tower when he’s sure he’ll run into as few people as possible, and unless he’s under orders (like the mandated sessions with the shrink who thinks he’s going to win a Nobel prize for fixing poor broken Clint), he sticks to the range. Even before Loki’s attack, the other agents knew to leave the archery section of the gym to him, and it’s a blessing now to find it always cleared out and ready for his hands (that are mostly steady, he only shakes a little, really) to nock back as many arrows as he can find, the solid _thwap_ of steel piercing its target better than any therapy.

Another wave of agents is headed his way - he can’t see them yet, but the scuff of boots on linoleum and the squawking walkie-talkie is all the warning he needs. He ducks into a supply closet before they can see him, and from there it’s just a few short moments to shimmy up into the ventilation ducts, then he’s in the stairwell. Stark Tower has been operational less than two weeks and he already knows the floor plan like the back of his hand - air ducts, mostly-unused corridors, and portions that are still under construction that are excellent to hide out in. (The construction workers don’t know shit about SHIELD - to them he’s just a guy that shows up to chill, always beats them at darts, but sometimes brings sandwiches. Those guys are legit.)

He almost heads down to the lobby, ready to blow this joint. The archery range he’s got set up at home is obviously smaller and much lower-tech than SHIELD’s, but he’s not really looking to train right now; he just wants blow off some steam, and the ratty secondhand targets he bought from a thrift store will do just fine. But he’s already high enough up that his room - the one Tony offered to him that he almost never uses - is just a few floors away, and then from there only several more until he hits the roof. Okay, so ‘several’ is actually closer to 23, but whatever, the physical exertion feels good. His breathing is only the slightest bit heavy when he shoves the heavy steel access door open, and the cool air burns his lungs in the best way possible. He takes a few seconds to just breathe, long and slow - ever since Barney taught him how to climb a tree in their scraggly patch of backyard, he’s always felt more in control somewhere up high - where he can see from every angle, and nothing can sneak up on him. He even dragged one of the pillows up from his room the last time he was here, and bungee-corded it down to stop the wind from stealing it. It’s not the most inviting space in the world, but then again Clint has never really needed creature comforts.

He’s expecting to steal a few minutes - take in the view, get his head on straight before ~~fleeing~~ traveling back home. He’s not expecting to find his seat already taken.

“Are you Darcy?” he asks, hazarding a guess. She’s on the other side of the roof with her back to him, but it’s a brunette in civilian clothes; it’s an educated guess. The girl snorts, like this is a particularly funny question, but doesn’t otherwise respond. Nat didn’t say that Darcy - he’s going to assume this is Darcy, otherwise Stark’s got a serious security problem going on - was either armed or dangerous, so he crosses over to the other side of the roof. “That’s my spot, by the way,” he informs her. She snorts again.

“Okay, Sheldon,” she agrees.

“Uh…my name’s Clint,” he responds, confused. Darcy looks up at him, disdain written across her face, and it honestly takes him until that moment - and a few more, really - to realize that he knows exactly who she is. “ _Max_?!” he exclaims. She sighs.

“It’s Darcy,” she says. “Max is my superhero codename. I get one of those if I come work for SHIELD, right? I mean, I could probably come up with something better, but let’s just say it stands for something. Maximum Ride? Maximum Girl? …Dude, could you sit down? You’re creeping me out looming like that.” 

Clint, in the absence of any reason to resist, does as he’s told, but he keeps looking over at…Darcy, Max, the girl he fingerbanged in a dirty alleyway. She looks so much younger here and now, softer, hair pulled back and face scrubbed clean, hugging her knees to her chest. The guilt grabs him unbidden. It’s kind of one of the many things he doesn’t feel like he has complete control of these days - the nagging feeling that everything is his fault; even things far beyond his reach, like the girl beside him trying to make herself as small as possible but not really succeeding.

“You’re Foster’s intern?” he asks, knowing the answer even before she nods. “Oh god,” he chokes out. “Look, about what happened in the alley-”

“Oh my god, are you still going on about that?” Darcy interrupts him, annoyed. “Look, I’m a big girl, I can make my own decisions about my own body, okay? Seriously, get over it.”

“You had just been through something huge, and I took advantage of that,” Clint insists. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“Okay one, never _ever_ say that to a girl you’ve slept with. Two, those were not my first aliens. And three, you looked like death warmed over that day, so I don’t think I was the only one who was exhausted and emotional and looking for an outlet.”

“It’s not the same,” he argues automatically. The look Darcy shoots him is deeply unimpressed.

“Because you’re the big macho man and I’m a poor little woman who has no control over my own sexual desires?” she challenges. “I swear to god, I will push you off of this fucking roof.” Clint snaps his mouth shut. He’s been over this argument enough times before in his life, he knows when to stop digging. Also he kind of believes her about pushing him, and he doesn’t have any of his grappling arrows with him at the moment.

“Okay. Okay, just… know that I feel horrible about it, and it’s not something that I make a habit of.”

“You feel horrible about having sex with me, great, noted.” Clint kind of almost maybe, for the briefest of moments, fantasizes about pushing _her_ off of the roof - she’s a very frustrating person. Instead he clenches his fists and reminds himself of what he’s been told time and time over: that he will never understand women no matter how hard he tries, so it’s best to just go with it and stop acting like they’re puzzles that can only be put together one way. He can practically hear Bobbi’s voice in his head reciting the words.

“So Fury’s got teams of agents looking for you,” he says instead, deciding that changing the topic completely is the best way to go. Darcy side-eyes him.

“Are you one of them?” she asks, and he’s glad when he can honestly answer ‘no’, because he has a feeling she’d know if he was lying to her.

“I don’t know if he even knows I’m in the building. I was just coming in for some target practice when the fun started."

“Right, your brilliant plan to save the world with summer camp activities. How could I forget?”

“Well, we can’t all have show ponies. I make due.”

“Chestnut is a thoroughbred, thankyouverymuch,” Darcy corrects. Then she falls silent, almost as if she’s grown bored of needling him. Clint starts to say something, a couple of times, but ends up stopping just before the words come out. He has about a million questions, but he kind of gets the feeling that if she gives him answers she’ll expect ones from him in return, and he doesn’t think he’s ready for that. He’s barely holding it together as it is, he’s in no way ready to start analyzing things. So he sits, awkwardly drumming his fingers against his thigh, as Darcy easily ignores him. Yeah, this is _so_ much better than hearing junior agents trade rumors about him in the cafeteria…

“I can go,” he says finally. “Yeah, I’m gonna go. That’s probably… I’ll go.” He’s not going to report back to Fury - one, because that would involve actually _talking_ to Fury, and that’s one of the main conversations he’s been avoiding; and two, because it seems like she’s got a lot going on in her head. Clint knows that feeling better than anyone, and he knows that he prefers the privacy - just the crisp wind and the view of the city. He starts to stand, but Darcy grabs him before he can get all the way up.

“Wait,” she says, biting her lip. They both look down in surprise at her hand on his forearm, and she yanks it back. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just… kind of freaking out, and you’re the closest thing I’ve got to a familiar face in here. Just give it to me straight - is Nick Fury a total dick?” Clint laughs before he can remind himself to be professional. Then he remembers that he’s himself, and also that she’s had her hands down his pants, so that’s probably a lost cause at this point.

“Yeah, kind of,” he admits. “I gather that’s why you’re hiding out from him up here?”

“He gave me an ultimatum - join SHIELD, or never get to talk to Jane again.”

“Jane Foster?” Clint clarifies. Darcy nods.

“I know it’s stupid, and I haven’t actually talked to her in a long time. I cut myself off from everything even remotely having to do with New Mexico or SHIELD after what happened. I guess I figured if I didn’t become part of the whole black ops dog and pony show, I could go back to living a normal life. I _liked_ my normal life. So I changed my name, left town…”

“And ended up in the middle of a Loki attack anyway.” Darcy huffs out a laugh.

“Have I got great luck or what?”

"Does it really count as luck when it happens twice?" Clint wonders aloud. Darcy whips around to glare at him, her eyes getting that ‘throw you off of the roof’ look again.

"You know, I really wish people would quit saying that,” she groans. Clint shrugs.

“Look, I can’t tell you what to do. And I’m not going to bullshit you, because frankly I don’t have the energy. SHIELD is both the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve gotten shot at, stabbed, mind-controlled, dosed with sex pollen - don’t ask - paralytic agents, truth serums, and probably had more concussions than is healthy.”

“…Wow, you need to work on your pitch skills,” Darcy mutters.

“I’m not trying to sell you on a job. SHIELD isn’t a job, it’s a… a way of life, I guess? I dunno, is there any way to say that that doesn’t sound so lame? Look, for all that I’ve been beaten all to hell, it’s been worth it. At the end of the day, the planet’s still standing. New Mexico wasn’t destroyed. Neither was New York. And that’s because of me, no matter how small a part I played. So yeah, I’ll take the shit getting thrown at me, because the way I see it life is going to toss you a shit deal either way. But at least this way, I get something out of it. It means something.”

“But what about the rest of it?” Darcy challenges. “What about when they decide that your best isn’t good enough, and try to nuke the city? What about when they try and tell you who you can and can’t associate with? Are those same people really trying to claim they’re the good guys?” Clint shrugs again. If she’s looking for real advice, she probably should have chosen someone else - he doesn’t exactly have a track record of the best decision-making skills.

“I’m not claiming they’re perfect. Sometimes they make the wrong call. But keep in mind that we’re a relatively small group, trying to solve the types of problems that we don’t exactly have a precedent for. Making the wrong move every now and then is kind of expected.” Darcy rests her chin on her knees, looking out at the skyline as she processes this. The sun is high in the sky, making the light reflect off of the glass and chrome of the city. Clint loves the way it makes the buildings glint like jewels, but Darcy closes her eyes against the sight. That’s fine; he’s content to look himself, while she continues to churn his words over in her mind. He’ll give her credit for that - he doesn’t know if he’s ever given any decision _any_ sort of thought. (This may correlate with his previously mentioned spotty track record, but that’s something to worry about at another time.)

“I just wish Jane was here,” Darcy finally says, quiet and aching. “I’m about to make a _huge_ , potentially life-changing decision. I could use some perspective. But the only people I know in here are her, Thor, and Eric, and I haven’t seen any of them since New Mexico.”

“You know me,” Clint offers. Darcy snorts derisively; he’s finding that’s a fairly common occurrence with her. 

“No offense dude, but just because I’ve seen your dick doesn’t mean I actually _know_ you.” Clint can’t stop the disgruntled noise that escapes him at that, but she largely ignores it. “Plus, you fuck strange girls in alleyways, so your judgment is a little suspect. Steve is all kinds of awesome, so I guess that’s a check in the ‘pro’ column, but I mean my first intro to SHIELD was Coulson, and that guy was just as big a dick as Fury. So, basically I have no idea what to think, and I’m not really being given much of an opportunity to figure anything out.” 

The mention of his name blindsides Clint, and he physically recoils. Bad enough that Darcy notices, because she turns to regard him with a raised eyebrow. _Fuck._ He wasn’t expecting to have to deal with this today. It’s going to be a very long time before he’s able to adjust to the giant gap that’s been left in his life, but the times when he’s not expecting his name to come up are the worst.

“Sorry,” he grinds out. “Coulson…was a friend. He didn’t make it.” Darcy looks back out at the skyline, biting her lip.

“Oh,” she says. “Sorry.” There’s a pause. “Sorry,” she repeats. “I’m…not really good at being comforting? I usually end up making people feel worse.” Clint can’t stop himself from laughing at that, and a tiny bit of the tension he’s been carrying around the last few days drains from him. It’s been nothing but terse silences and overwrought cliches since they found out about Phil - Darcy’s honesty is refreshing and more than welcome.

“It’s okay,” he assures. And then - because fuck it, why not? It’s already been firmly established that he holds no ground where Darcy is concerned - he elaborates. “Coulson _was_ kind of a dick. But I’m a dick, too. It worked for us. We were actually really close.” Darcy rests her arms on her knees, her face on her arms, turning to study him more intently than she has at any time prior to this - including the alley.

“I find that kind of hard to picture,” she confesses. Clint laughs easily.

“You’re not the first one. But if you’re making that list, Phil Coulson definitely goes in the pro column. He wasn’t the best people person - as has been pointed out to me recently, not many of us here are - but he’s one in a very small number of people that I would trust with my life. Plus, the man was literally immune to being surprised or startled. Anything you could think of, he would just stand there and, at most, raise an eyebrow at you. And believe me, I tried. I pranked the shit out of him, and never a reaction. Ever. Just the fucking coolest, even in those terrible suits.” Darcy hums, mulling this over with a hint of a smile. “Look, you’re right that I don’t really know you,” he continues. “And maybe SHIELD isn’t the place for you. But don’t let all of the black ops shit and Fury’s dickheadedness give you the wrong idea about who we are or what we do. We’re all pretty fucked up and socially awkward here. And SHIELD doesn’t give a shit. We’re the people the rest of the world has given up on, and SHIELD took us in. It’s… a family. Granted it’s a terribly dysfunctional one, but for some of us, it’s the closest we’ve ever come to the real thing.”

Darcy continues to watch his face, and Clint finally has to look back out to the stretch of city before them, but he can still feel her eyes. It’s the most honest he’s been with anyone in a very long while, and he’s not used to the feeling. He’s jiggling his foot agitatedly when she finally speaks up:

“So what kind of pranks did you pull on Coulson?” she asks.

Clint’s not going to try and persuade Darcy either way, because deciding to join up with SHIELD is a big deal - probably even bigger than she realizes - and she needs to come to that place on her own. But as his stupid stories of trying to get a rise out of Coulson coax out a smile - a genuine one, one that lights up her eyes and softens her face - he admits that he secretly hopes she’ll stick around for awhile.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since last update, I have seen Winter Soldier (both an advance screening and again on the actual release date), listened to/watched/read an alarming number of interviews/discussions of Winter Soldier, seen several flail-inducing season finales, have attended MegaCon, have been sucked back into the lonelygirl15 vortex, and have started watching Game of Thrones. Basically I am filled to the brim with nerdy fandom joy. It’s lovely, but distracting.
> 
> Also, obviously, Winter Soldier has not happened in this universe. There’s a 99.9% chance that Winter Soldier the character will not be appearing in this story (though never say never, because dear god I do love me some Bucky), but without a doubt the movie plot is not going to work here. So let’s just continue on our merry way.

The plan is to make a dramatic entrance back into Fury’s office, lay down the law in a dramatic fashion, and then make a dramatic exit. (She’s been living with Caroline for the past two years, she can _absolutely_ deliver that much drama.) The plan gets slightly derailed, however, when Darcy realizes that she still has no clue how to navigate inside the giant maze that is the SHIELD sector of Stark Tower, and she’s forced to surrender herself to one of the incredibly conspicuous search parties combing the halls. (She does, however, get to make a baby jackbooted thug - seriously the guy can’t be older than 25 - jump a foot off the ground when she taps him on the shoulder from behind. So that kind of evens it out.)

“Darcy Lewis?” the team leader asks, with a sigh that she personally chooses to read as fond exasperation. 

“Take me to your leader,” she deadpans, holding her hands out in anticipation of cuffs of some sort. She could get on board with being a prisoner of war - that’s pretty badass, right? Instead, Team Leader makes the noise again (oh yeah, there’s totally fondness there. She is adorable, okay?) and gestures her to follow. They wind through the seemingly endless number of identical sterile white hallways again, and Darcy almost gets cold feet just at considering the possibility that this is a giant labyrinth from which agents are never allowed to escape, just doomed to wander aimlessly until they are old and grey and their ashes are evaporated back into the building ecosystem. But that’s probably ridiculous. 

Probably. This is SHIELD, after all.

“Oh god,” she mutters, just as the team comes up short in front of a door that, when opened, reveals Fury’s office once more. He takes one look at her queasy expression and heaves a sighs.

“Why do the newbies always have to puke in my goddamn toilet?” he asks rhetorically, and points to a door off the east wall that Darcy assumes leads to the bathroom, but she is so not going in there alone, the toilet could probably kill her. (Fear of the bathrooms is something she’s going to have to overcome sometime soon, or it could make working here hella awkward.)

“Who says I’m a newbie?” she challenges. “Maybe I’m turning you down.”

“If you were turning me down, you wouldn’t have bothered to come back.” Okay, fair point - leaving without a backwards glance would totally be her style if she had decided to blow them off. But instead she’s back in Fury’s murder chamber, surrounded by very well-armed and well-trained black ops dudes, about to sign up to become a part of the madness. Oh man she really doesn’t want to puke in Fury’s goddamn toilet after all.

“I have some conditions,” she blurts out, in lieu of said puke. Fury sighs noisily and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah,” he responds. “I kinda figured.”

~*~

She finds Steve and Caroline sitting at one of the tables in the Stark Tower cafe (one guess as to who decided on the name Iron Chef). Caroline is twirling her hair around her finger and blinking a lot in that way that she insists is sexy but Darcy secretly thinks makes her look like she’s got some sort of condition. Steve doesn’t seem to mind, however, if the way his hand keeps brushing her arm is any indication. Darcy rolls her eyes and approaches the table.

"Okay, Ken? Barbie? I've had about enough of this,” she announces, complete with flailing hand gesture. Both parties immediately flush bright red. “Time to go,” she commands. “Up.” Caroline giggles at Steve as she lets herself be strong-armed out of her chair, and Darcy lets out a noise not dissimilar to the one Team Leader made at her earlier. (And okay, so there may or may not have been a lack of fondness there, but lord give her strength she does not have time for puppy love with Captain America.)

“I’ll walk you out,” Steve offers. Darcy pats him on the ridiculously muscular arm.

“I got this,” she promises. “Call it SHIELD overdose, but it’s time to get some fresh, urine-scented Brooklyn air. Don’t make that sad face at me - I am immune to your crazy good looks.” He arches an eyebrow, the smug bastard. “Okay, whatever. We’ll be back, though, so no need to give me the kicked puppy face.”

Caroline calls a goodbye over her shoulder, but Darcy doesn’t stop hustling her until they’re out of the building and halfway to the nearest subway entrance. She kind of loses steam then, and by the time they get to the platform Caroline is the one leading her. She steers Darcy over to the closest bench, death-glaring a hipster into vacating it before shoving her to a seated position. Darcy closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths, letting the comforting New York City white noise of whizzing trains and angry shouting wash over her. When she opens them again, Caroline is frowning at her, concerned.

“I don’t know how to deal with someone having a panic attack, so please don’t be having one right now,” she says bluntly. Darcy laughs, and feels a bit of the bubbling sense of dread inside of her start to subside.

“Really? I totally would have pegged you as the panic attack type,” she responds thoughtfully. 

“Please,” Caroline scoffs. “If I was going to have one, it would have been when that roach crawled into my cereal bowl and you didn’t tell me and I almost ate it. If that didn’t do it, I’m pretty sure nothing will.” 

“Good point. Also: hilarious.” She slumps back against the support column behind her, which isn’t particularly comfortable but feels infinitely better than trying to hold herself upward of her own volition. She feels exhausted, as if she’s just run a marathon. Caroline is still hovering and regarding her warily.

“I assume this means you’re going to be working for SHIELD now?” she asks. Darcy nods.

“Hmmmm,” is Caroline’s only response.

“Is that a good ‘hmmmm’ or a bad ‘hmmmm’?”

“Hmmmm.” 

“Fair enough.” Caroline flops down beside her on the bench, her sigh saying all that needs be said about the day they’ve had - and it’s still barely past noon. Darcy will deny it until her dying breath, but she finds herself leaning into Caroline, pressing their shoulders together and finding solidity there against the chaotic hubbub of New York City transit. 

“So things are just going to get more complicated from here, I take it,” Caroline surmises. 

“Hmmmm,” Darcy agrees. Caroline makes a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and for several moments they just sit there, letting it all sink in. Two trains come and go in the interim. Darcy searches for words, but none come to mind - to be honest, she’s starting to feel a little apprehensive about dragging Caroline into this mess, whether intentional or not. She’s sure she’s making a horrible guilty face when Caroline nudges her shoulder with her own. 

“Will it cheer you up if I point out that you finally get to quit the diner?” she asks. Darcy’s eyes light up in response.

~*~

Quitting the diner is, as it turns out, nowhere near as satisfying as Darcy had been expecting. Don’t get her wrong, she will be perfectly happy to never again have to deal with a table of pre-teens that stays twenty minutes past closing trying to figure out how to split the bill and ends up leaving no tip rather than whip out a fucking calculator. But SHIELD, even with awesome people like Jane and Thor and Steve, and kind-of-okay people like Clint and apparently Coulson, is never going to be quite the same.

It’s stupid, she knows - for one, it’s not like she started out at the diner already knowing everybody, and half the time she fucking hates it. But all alone in a strange city without even the basic comfort of someone saying her name, she had to find it in other places; Earl always giving her more than her cut of the tip money and sharing his weed on slow nights. Han shyly asking questions about English pronunciation and verb tenses, diligently repeating her examples and thanking her by sneaking those weird little Korean fish cakes into her purse. Oleg threatening pervy customers who try to get handsy, always with the preface of “Max can destroy you on her own, but…” Movie nights at Sophie’s, trying on expensive makeup and passing out after far too many glasses of really _really_ good vodka. And Caroline. Caroline, who she hated on sight, and let’s be honest is sometimes still kind of a crappy waitress, but who makes bad nights bearable and _cares_ on a level deeper than Darcy sometimes feels like she deserves. The diner was her home when she needed one the most, and the thought of leaving it now - for _SHIELD_ \- fills her with a not small amount of terror.

It’s stupid. Really, she is completely aware of this. But it doesn’t stop her moping around about it for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening - after they celebrate her pay raise with lunch at Subway, that is. (Hopefully there’s a pay raise involved? She realizes in the middle of making pornographic noises at her roast beef flatbread that she didn’t actually ask about pay. Or hours. Or her actual job description. She thinks these are things she should probably find out.)

Even Chestnut seems to pick up on her despondent mood - when she takes him out for his evening walk, he snuffles a sigh at her, and plods slowly along the street. After he’s done his business as Darcy has done hers in response, she rests the shovel against the dumpster and kisses his nose.

“Come on, big guy - your job is to cheer me up, not make with the sad eyes,” she tells him seriously. Chestnut nudges his nose into her hand and she smiles, runs it over his face and up to scratch him behind the ears. “Okay, buddy - let’s go for a little ride,” she suggests.

The saddle is still back at the house, so Darcy climbs onto the ledge of the dumpster and hoists herself onto Chestnut’s bare back. He shuffles on his feet a bit, because really they don’t get a chance ride him all that much anymore, and the last time someone did there were aliens involved. Darcy doesn’t blame him for being a bit spooked.

“No more blue guys, I promise,” she consoles him, petting him gently between the ears. She leans down and rests her cheek against his neck, listening to his loud horsy breaths, murmuring nonsense until when she squeezes her feet against his belly, he takes a few hesitant steps forward. “That’s my boy,” she crows softly, and kisses his ear before she straightens to lead them down the street.

Road and building repairs are being made as swiftly as possible, but with the amount of damage that was done they’ve still got a long ways to go. Darcy and Chestnut are able to make their way through the streets mostly unbothered - there’s a stray car here and there, and a few cops that give them a double-take, but she recognizes at least one from the skirmish outside of Stark Tower, and he simply gives her a nod. It’s not like they’re doing anything wrong, or even going anywhere particularly interesting - she just leads them in a lazy circle around the block, more intent on clearing her head than on any destination. It’s easy to lose herself in the clacking of hooves against pavement, the rhythm of the gait beneath her. Even having to pause to clean up another mess (sans shovel, even - god bless temporarily abandoned construction equipment) isn’t enough to ruin her mood. 

It comes to her on their second loop, and she tugs at Chestnut’s reins to make a sharp left. There is absolutely no way they’d ever be able to get away with this were the city not in shambles. But it is, and that means that the parking lot for the mall down the road is practically empty save for the few cars that were unlucky enough to get left behind when the invasion started, which have been abandoned with blast marks in the doors and tires ripped to shreds. Chestnut hesitates at the entrance, but Darcy leans down and gives him another scratch behind the ears, speaks again in the soothing tone of voice that she never seems to be able to muster up for actual humans, and then they’re climbing the eight stories with the moon shining through the concrete openings like something straight out of a zombie movie. It’s eerie and silent, Chestnut’s hooves reverberating off of the stone structure, but there’s something undeniably cool about the whole thing, especially when they get to the top floor and move to the very edge of the roof to look down on the city. It’s beautiful even half-destroyed, and more alive down here at night, as far as Darcy’s concerned, than from perched high atop Stark Tower.

It reminds her of the desert. Not exactly the same, of course, but she’s come up here sans horse enough times just to try and capture the feeling of the open sky at night - the same as when she and Jane would climb to the roof of the van, separately or together depending on how much they were driving each other crazy that week. The twinkle of stars was a comfort either way, such that city neon and blinking aircraft lights could never quite replicate. Darcy feels an ache deep down in the pit of her belly, more fully realized now than ever before. Before, it was just the guilt. Now it’s tinged with something stronger, knowing that Jane is out there, on her way back to New York. She realizes then that she doesn’t know how much Fury has told her - does Jane realize that Darcy is here, that she’s about to be coming back, that Jane herself is the _reason_ she’s coming back? Should she be the one to tell her first? 

Darcy wrestles with this decision for approximately five seconds before fishing her cell phone out of her pocket and dialing the number she has stored simply under “Doc”. Rule number one of going on the run was that you severed all ties to your former life, especially those with additional ties to shady government organizations, but no matter how many times Darcy had started to erase the number from her contact list, she had never been able to follow through. She hasn’t called since leaving New Mexico, but it’s always been sitting there, taunting her when she scrolled past it. She hits dial now, but after the familiar three-tone chime she hears:

“The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again.”

In a way, it’s a relief; she doesn’t even know what she would have said if, by some miracle, Jane had actually picked up. But there’s also a clawing at the pit of her stomach that she steadfastedly ignores. She chose this, she reminds herself. She chose to lose contact, therefore she is not allowed to be sad about Jane changing her number without ever informing Darcy about it, because it’s been nothing but radio silence from Darcy since boarding call at the Santa Fe airport. She is not the slightest bit upset about this, because that would be silly and unfair and she is neither of those things. She is a grown woman, completely satisfied with her life choices.

Darcy sighs and tugs on Chestnut’s reins. 

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iron Chef seems like such an obvious choice, but it took pestering my best friend to come up with it. (Which he did in about 0.4 seconds, the bastard.) The Korean fish cakes are called bungeoppang and they are delicious. If you have an Asian marketplace near you, I am extremely jealous and you should get some immediately.
> 
> Background writing music for this chapter: the astoundingly glorious atmospheric 80’s cyberpunk Winter Soldier mix [Nightcall](http://8tracks.com/youneedtostrut/nightcall).


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo… can we talk about “You could always move to New York and change your name to Max… oh wait, I already did that.” Uh, if that’s not irrefutable evidence that this fic is canon I kinda don’t know what is. Just sayin’…
> 
> Also, Max’s escapades in Orlando are pretty much the life story of anyone who has done the Disney College Program and I’m not even joking. ALSO IS ANYONE KINDA SHIPPING HER WITH THE HISTORY TEACHER?
> 
> I’m done, sorry.

“I hate 6am, 6am is the devil,” Darcy groans into the largest coffee cup they have in the apartment. It may in fact technically be a soup bowl, but at the moment it is filled to the brim with black coffee and Darcy is slurping it greedily, only to wince as it scalds her tongue. It’s worth a few third degree burns, however - if she’s expected to get through her first day as a SHIELD agent at this godawful hour, she’s going to need at least two more mugs-slash-bowls.

“Remember the million lectures I’ve given you on caffeine overdose?” Caroline asks mildly. “This is me repeating them to you all at once. You’re going to be having convulsions before you even get to Stark Tower.”

“They’ll probably think it’s some sort of latent superpower manifesting itself,” Darcy says with a wave of her hand - a careful wave, much more subdued than her usual exaggerated gestures, for fear of spilling one precious drop of coffee. “By the way, that would be awesome. I officially call dibs on the superhero name Captain Cappuccino.”

“I think you’re probably safe on that one,” Caroline responds, turning back to the counter where she is sifting flour into a small bowl and frowning at it like it’s a particularly complicated crossword puzzle. “What do I do now?” she asks.

“Call Wharton and ask for a refund?” Darcy cracks. Caroline raises a brow, unimpressed, and reaches for the baking powder.

“They don’t have cooking classes at business school,” she says primly, as she carefully measures out a teaspoon and adds it to the dry ingredients.

“Well, they probably should, because that was supposed to be baking _soda_ ,” Darcy informs her. Caroline jerks her head up in surprise, looks to the mess of bowls on the kitchen counter, then back to Darcy with the saddest expression she has ever seen. Darcy sighs. “For the last time, I can do this when I get home,” she insists. “People who willingly pay to eat at the diner are not going to care that the cupcakes are a couple of hours old.”

Caroline sighs and dumps the whole mess into sink, where it lands with a powdery puff of flour, but Darcy has turned her attention back to her coffee and scarcely notices. They’ve been working nights at the diner for so long that she forgot what a bitch it is to wake up early - it’s still dark out, it’s just inhumane! The kicker, of course, is that Caroline is _always_ up at this hour - Darcy will stumble bleary-eyed out of the bedroom at barely before 10 to find her doing yoga or working on their website, cheerfully yammering on about all the things she’s gotten done so far that morning. Darcy honestly doesn’t know how she manages to do it and still work a 10-hour shift that doesn’t let out until midnight, but she suspects drugs, and why the hell isn’t she sharing? 

The coffee has cooled to the point that Darcy can now sip it comfortably, and she swigs down most of the mug in a few harried gulps. With Caroline still mucking about in the kitchen, she retreats to her room and slides open the closet door - a feat in itself, given that it was falling off its hinges when she moved in, and is now staying together mostly with luck and chewing gum. Inside is an eclectic mix of Goodwill and thrift store finds that Darcy has to say she’s pretty proud of, but she doesn’t need to rifle through it to know there’s nothing that will even come close to passing as business casual. Damn. This was a lot easier when it was just her and Jane out in the desert - their dress code had pretty much run to plaid, cowboy boots, and anything that could keep the dust and sand at bay. 

“You could borrow something of mine,” Caroline offers, coming through the door and dropping to sit on the bed. Darcy scoffs.

“How about no. Corporate Barbie is most definitely not my style. Plus, even if it were…” she gestures between her chest and Caroline’s, raising her eyebrows at the ridiculousness of them ever being able to fit into the same top.

“Your boss would probably approve,” Caroline deadpans, and they’re clearly both picturing the same goggle-eyed expression on Tony’s face were she to walk in with one of Caroline’s blouses busting at the seams, because they start giggling at the same time. 

“They’d probably have to name a chapter in the sexual harassment pamphlet after me… The Darcy Lewis Addendum. With Focus on the Double D’s. Hmm… maybe I’ll take you up on that after all,” she says speculatively. She goes back to rummaging through the closet, and is in the middle of contemplating a denim blazer when Caroline asks:

“So… should I start calling you Darcy now?”

“…Oh,” she says. She hadn’t even really thought about that. “I mean… whatever you want, I guess? I don’t really care. It’s a little weird now either way, to be honest.” She laughs. “I’ve never had a secret identity before, I don’t really know what the protocol is here.”

“Probably a question to ask today,” Caroline suggests. “That’s got to be a common SHIELD problem. Speaking of which…” She slides some hangers around, digging until she finds what she’s looking for: a well-worn blue t-shirt with Captain America’s shield emblazoned across the front of it. They’re mass-producing and selling them at nearly every clothing store and street corner peddler nowadays, but this one has been around since the 80’s - a hand-me-down from one of Darcy’s older cousins, with little rips and stains here and there but still holding together after countless washings as a testament to a durability not seen in clothing today. Darcy takes it with a grin.

“Steve is going to blush so hard his face will match Tony’s suit,” she crows, whipping her pajama top off and slipping into the t-shirt. When her eyes are clear of fabric, Caroline is giving her a horrified look. “What? You chose it,” she defends.

“I was _kidding_. You can’t actually go into a job wearing that!” Darcy tugs on a pair of jeans and gives her reflection in the mirror a shrug before she dives back into the closet, ignoring Caroline’s indignant protests. She lets out a cry when she finds her old cowboy boots, still streaked with traces of the desert. _Perfect._ She deliberately sits half on top of Caroline as she pulls them on over a pair of thick socks. They feel so comfortable and sturdy that she almost wants to cry. 

“Calm down,” she demands of Caroline’s increasingly shrill fretting. “If Nick Fury wanted someone appropriate and professional, he would have hired… well, _you_. If he wants me, he’s gonna get me just like this. And if he doesn’t like it, he can fire me, and we can be done with this whole ordeal.” She gives her boot-clad feet an experimental kick, deliberately aiming at her roommate’s shin. Caroline glares, but then reaches over and hugs her, so swift and ninja-like that Darcy doesn’t even get the chance to duck out of the way. Damn her.

“How much longer until everyone stops touching me and starts fearing me again?” she asks rhetorically. Caroline ignores her and squeezes tighter.

“You’re gonna do great, Max,” she says with confidence. 

She’s ready to be Darcy Lewis again, but she has to admit there’s a small part of her that likes still being Max Black, even if to just one person.

~*~

Pepper meets her in the lobby of Stark Tower, as put-together as ever in a sleek navy blue sheath dress and what Darcy would swear are twelve-inch stilettos, clutching two coffees and the ever-present tablet. Darcy shuffles a bit uncomfortably in her cowboy boots, but Pepper’s smile is genuine as she remarks:

“You’re going to have to either find a jacket or hide behind me if Tony sees you in his building wearing another Avenger’s logo.” There’s probably a joke to be made there about Tony being on her chest, but even Darcy knows that it’s best kept to herself. At least until her third day or so on the job.

“I just thought Steve would get a kick out of it. I wasn’t really sure what I was supposed to wear, and I don’t have anything… well, like that,” she admits, gesturing to Pepper’s ensemble. The other woman smoothes her hemline with a smile. 

“The nice clothes are a trade-off for the amount of time I have to spend putting out fires, despite the fact that Tony currently has not one but _three_ assistants, none of whom are me. If someone offers you Prada, ask what the catch is.” Darcy grins. 

“Noted.” Pepper passes her one of the paper cups in her hand.

“I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee, but there’s a fully-stocked bar in the cafe if you want to fix it for yourself.” Darcy shrugs.

“I’m good with black,” she says, taking a tentative sip. She manages to tamp back the noise she’s in danger of making - she is totally rocking this whole professional adult thing, by the way - because damn but that is probably the best coffee she has ever had in her life. Rich and flavorful, and with enough caffeine that, combined with the bowl and a half she managed at home before Caroline cut her off, she’s probably going to be wired for the next week straight. “This should be illegal,” she groans. Pepper smiles at her.

“A girl after my own heart,” she says. “The daily limit is two cups, though - I’m pretty sure anything more is actually lethal. Granted, I’ve built up a tolerance over the years, but I’m not sure that’s necessarily a good thing.” She takes a drink from her own cup and starts tapping the screen of her tablet. “I’m afraid today is going to be mostly the boring stuff - new hire paperwork, setting you up with an ID and access, and of course a short tour so that you can familiarize yourself with the Tower.” It dawns on Darcy then, as Pepper ushers her towards the bank of elevators:

“Which isn’t really in your job description,” she guesses. Pepper gives her an appraising look as the doors slide shut, a perfectly manicured fingernail reaching out to tap the button for one of the floors in the SHIELD section. 

“To be fair, I doubt that half of what I do falls under the job description of your average CEO, though you’re right. I’m not generally in charge of orientation. But we’ve had quite a bit of upheaval in the past few days - the Avengers Initiative has been thrust into the public spotlight, yet is classified beyond the access level of most of the SHIELD agents currently working in Stark Tower. If anyone should be handling a new employee with ties to the Avengers, it’s probably Colonel Fury, but it was helpfully pointed out that maybe someone else should step in.” Darcy breathes a sigh of relief.

“God bless Captain America,” she says, snapping off a joking little salute. Pepper smirks at her.

“Actually, it was Agent Barton who made the suggestion,” she says, all faux innocence, and Darcy is really starting to get why she and Tony work so well together. Before she has the time to dwell on any of this, however, the elevator doors open on a chaotic mess of cubicles and plastic drop cloths. Darcy isn’t sure whether this is excellent or terrible timing, and Pepper sighs at the sight.

“Did I mention that half of our building is still under construction?” she murmurs, shaking her head. Her high heels clack against the tile floor as she crosses the room, and Darcy hurries to match the speed that no one should be able to accomplish while still looking that graceful; her own boots clomp softly a half-step behind Pepper’s rhythm.

She’s right about it being boring - Darcy spends most of the morning digitally signing her life away to clauses so ridiculous she’s pretty sure Tony paid his lawyers to slip them in there just to fuck with people. At one point she actually has to choose the person she’d be willing to sleep with if she were to be “affected by a toxin which radically enhances the natural state of arousal to the point of physical pain if release is not achieved. (Please refer to incident report in SHIELD archives, file #TRP0142.)” Darcy writes down Caroline’s name, makes a mental note to track down file #TRP0142 the next time she’s feeling lonely, and resolutely does not let herself dwell on the rest of it. If there was ever a time to get cold feet, now would probably be it, but Darcy has often been accused of being too stubborn for her own good, and now that she’s come this far it seems silly to let a little thing like the threat of sex pollen scare her away.

Pepper floats in and out of the room, always in constant motion - texting, making phone calls, swiping at her tablet. The clicking of stiletto against tile becomes a comforting white noise as Darcy fills out her tax forms and signs her name on so many dotted lines that the very shape of her signature starts to look strange. (Though, to be fair, that may be because it’s been a long time since she’s signed Darcy Lewis instead of Max Black, and the big loops of the L still kind of trip her up. Also stylus pens suck, no matter how much technology progresses.)

After the paperwork, there are training manuals to read, which consist mostly of how to save oneself from various potential life-or-death situations, and after _those_ come the terrible terrible sexual harassment videos. Darcy doesn’t know whether to be amused or disappointed that they’re the same cheesy ones from the 1980’s that she’s had to sit through for at least three other jobs, including the diner, but she suspects their effect on Tony and the work environment were similar to their effect on Oleg.

Pepper taps her on the shoulder at around noon, in the middle of eviscerating someone via mobile phone, and gestures vaguely out the door before disappearing in a whiff of Chanel No. 5. She returns about an hour later, just as Darcy is checking the ‘Yes, I understand the policies laid out before me’ box on the final video, carrying a takeout bag.

“Turkey or chicken?” she asks, unloading the contents onto the mostly-empty desk Darcy has been using. She peers over her shoulder as she does so, remarking “Oh, excellent, you’re finished. I don’t know if I could have sat through those ridiculous harassment videos again - once was more than enough. We had to go with the standard ones because Tony kept threatening to film his own, which… well, I don’t think any of us were prepared to deal with the fallout from that.” 

Darcy chooses the chicken, and Pepper lays out before her half of a sandwich, a salad, a bowl of fruit, and a giant cup of green tea. Her stomach is rumbling so loudly it’s probably audible, and she decides then and there that she gets why Caroline is so enamored with this woman. Well, okay, so she could have gotten them burgers, but there’s no way anyone would risk ketchup stains in a dress like that.

“Thanks,” Darcy says, making the executive decision to finish chewing and swallowing first before speaking, unlike usual diner conversation. Pepper waves a dismissive hand as she spears a tomato with her fork.

“I was starving, and there are only so many times I can eat in that damn cafe. We’ve got a pretty good relationship with the surrounding businesses, so if you ever feel like eating elsewhere, most of them are willing to deliver to us.” Darcy doubts she can afford any of these places, but she nods regardless before tearing into her sandwich - which is, naturally, delicious. “I’m afraid I’ve got some meetings that I need to attend soon, so I’ll be handing you over to my assistant, Emily, after this. She’s going to be taking you over to security to get your badge and swipe card, and then she’ll show you around the building, including the labs.” Darcy smiles on reflex, wanting to ask about Jane, but it feels too personal.

“Thank you,” she says instead. “I know you could have found someone else to babysit me all morning, but I appreciate it regardless.” Pepper pauses mid-bite.

“I know what it’s like to be thrust into all of this before you’re ready,” she says sincerely. “And you’ve had to do it twice. I’m happy to do anything I can to make the adjustment a bit smoother.” 

Darcy blushes and looks away as she throws her empty wrappers and containers into the garbage can. Yeah, she’s definitely up to Caroline levels of worship for Pepper Potts.

(She then exceeds Caroline levels, even, when Pepper pulls a small pear tart out of the takeout bag for them to split. She even lets her have the last bite, which officially makes her a far better person than Darcy will ever be.)

Emily meets them at the reception desk in front of Pepper’s office. They don’t go in, but what Darcy can see through the glass is enough to have her drooling. It’s the perfect mix of luxury and modern, and couldn’t possibly belong to anyone but Pepper. Darcy doesn’t have a dream board (and she will _never_ have a dream board, come off of it already Caroline), but she mentally adds a picture of this office to it anyway.

“Keep in touch,” Pepper tells Darcy, passing her a standard-issue business card with what she assumes is her personal number jotted onto the back in unsurprisingly precise handwriting. Which is sweet, even if she doubts she’ll ever feel comfortable using it.

Emily is not what Darcy is expecting - which is, basically, a miniature Pepper. But she is blonde instead of redheaded, shorter even than Darcy, slightly plump, a bit awkward, and dressed in casual slacks and a sweater. And ballet flats, with not even the slightest bit of a heel, which makes Darcy like her immediately. Because Pepper is all kinds of awesome, as she’s already established, but seriously. Those heels are kind of insanely impractical.

“I think security should be ready for us,” Emily says, glancing at her tablet; in this way, she is indeed Pepper-in-training, as she does the same juggling act of tablet, Blackberry, and a thermos of coffee, as well as another paper cup, which she passes to Darcy. “Here. You probably need this after all of that boring first day crap - I know the videos alone were enough to put me to sleep.” Pepper gives a disapproving look at the coffee as she slips into her office, but Emily only rolls her eyes. “Don’t even start with me, you addict,” she calls through the glass.

Darcy is kind of in love with her.

The trip to security is quick. The guys working in the office are all giant dorks that crack really terrible jokes, and they take four different photos so that the one that ends up on Darcy’s badge looks like a totally different person than the one with the wonky eyes on her driver’s license. 

Darcy may be kind of in love with them, too. It’s possible it’s the coffee talking.

“Unfortunately, this doesn’t get you access to many of the fun places,” Emily says as she hands Darcy her freshly-minted passkey and ID badge, still warm from the printer. “But trust me, that’s a good thing - I swear Tony and Bruce blow things up on purpose.” Darcy shrugs.

“Jane’s blown up the lab before. I’m used to it.”

“Oh, _really_?” Emily replies, interested. “Well, then. I’m going to have to remind her of that the next time she scolds the boys.” She leads Darcy to the elevator bank and shows her how to use her key card to enter the restricted floors. “You’ve got access to the Avengers’ lounge, though. Not the residential floors, but hell I can’t even get up there. Pepper says you’ve been vetted by Captain America himself.” Emily glances down at her t-shirt, and Darcy blushes.

“Steve is a friend,” she admits, feeling a bit weirdly self-conscious about it. “Is he here?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I am going to demand that you take me up there one day, just FYI, even though I’m sure what I’ve imagined in my mind is nothing like reality, but Natasha is out for a few days on some top-secret mission to wherever. I guess Clint is with her, but I don’t really see him much these days. And Tony and Bruce are almost certainly down in the labs, so there’s no fun if it’s empty.” Emily lets out a huff of annoyance at this, making Darcy smile.

“It’s a deal,” she promises.

Stark Tower is far less confusing and intimidating when you’ve been given a tour and a map and, Darcy hates to say this, but it starts to look like all of the other high-rise office buildings in the city. Well, okay, ones without floors that Avengers routinely inhabit. And super secret labs that are probably filled with chemicals that are illegal in all 50 states, but. You know. Other than that, a normal office building. Emily takes them to one of said labs with a swipe of her keycard, and when the elevator comes to a stop, the doors slide open to reveal what Darcy can only describe as a mad scientist’s wet dream. She sucks in a breath. 

“Woah.”

“I know, right?” Emily echoes from beside her.

She knew, theoretically, that the labs at Stark Tower were going to be miles above what they had out in the desert; for one, Tony’s budget far surpasses that of Culver’s science division. And she suspects that when machines break here, they’re able to be repaired, replaced, or upgraded; as opposed to New Mexico, where they were mostly held together with duct tape and coat hangers. They also weren’t working out of an abandoned car dealership anymore, so. Another plus. 

Still, she hadn’t quite been prepared for _this_. The lab takes up the entire floor of the Tower, and Darcy knows from the previously mentioned map and tour that it’s just one of many. It’s sterile white, with giant machines that she could never hope to identify humming and hammering from every corner. Teams swarm about in lab coats and goggles, making notes and doing science-y stuff and okay, Darcy is way out of her league. That much is abundantly clear. Most of the floor is one room, divvied up into individual workspaces, but they head to the back where a partition walls off a small, office-lined hallway. Quite a few of the lab techs greet Emily by name as she passes.

“I’m down here all the time,” she explains. “Technically Tony and Bruce each have their own floors, all to themselves. But Bruce and Jane collaborate a lot, and Tony follows Bruce around like a puppy dog. That or he honestly thinks that if I need to find him, a science lab wouldn’t be literally the _first_ place I would look.”

Sure enough, there are three brunette heads bent over one computer when they enter Jane’s office. All three of them are talking over each other, arguing something that Darcy only understands about three words of, even after six months of listening to Jane talk physics at her. She and Emily observe for a moment or two, but when it becomes clear that none of them have even registered the two extra bodies in the room, Emily finally clears her throat. Jane jumps, knees bumping the desk hard enough that her coffee sloshes out of her mug. Bruce looks spooked, like a deer in the headlights. And Tony just barely turns his head, gives them a dismissive glance, and returns to the problem at hand.

“…Darcy?” Jane utters in disbelief. (Which pretty much answers the question of whether she knew she was coming or not.) Darcy smiles awkwardly, waves even more awkwardly.

“Hey,” she says. Moments of tense silence clock by, marked by the persistent drone of machinery, until finally Jane shoves the boys out of the way and leaps from her chair, pulling Darcy into a hug far tighter than she should be able to manage with such scrawny little arms.

“So Doctor Foster, I hear that your spotless record has been tarnished,” Emily drawls from beside them, unfazed by the epic reunion. Jane pulls back to glare at Darcy.

“You told her about that?” she demands.

“You’ve blown up a lab? I _knew_ it,” Bruce mutters. Tony steals Jane’s chair and makes a show of wiping an imaginary tear from his eye.

“Our little baby is all grown up!” he simpers. Jane glares.

“It was _one time!_ ” she insists.

“You almost burned off half my face,” Darcy reminds her. “I looked like a cartoon for weeks.”

“It’s not my fault the 7-11 didn’t sell eyebrow pencils!” Jane argues, and Darcy grabs her by the shoulders to pull her in for another hug. She’s glad Caroline isn’t here to see her, because she’s been whining about the increase in physical affection over the past week or so, but right now she can’t seem to do anything except squeeze Jane tight. Jane, no more of a hugger than Darcy usually is, sighs.

“Where have you been?” she demands into her shoulder. Darcy makes a face, even though no one can see it.

“Later,” she promises. “We’ll talk about it later.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took awhile to get out because it kills me to see Darcy and Jane at odds. But it was necessary, and it WILL be resolved. I wanted so badly to wrap everything up in a neat little bow in one chapter, but that's not realistic. LOL not that realism is exactly my strong suit here - Kimberly_T pointed out a giant gaping timeline-related plothole that I completely missed. Uh...oops? *Sigh*.

Her first mistake, Darcy decides, was thinking it would be easy.

Though, to be fair, for about a week it is. She manages to acclimate to the early morning hours without damaging any internal organs due to caffeine consumption. She finds the best subway route to Stark Tower. She decrypts Jane’s notes, which is a full-time job in itself between her jagged, angled handwriting and the fact that Darcy doesn’t actually understand half of what she’s reading. They laugh at all of their old dumb inside jokes from New Mexico. She sees Steve, Pepper, and Emily, who continue to be far kinder and more gracious than they need to be. And at night she comes home, with time to spare for a chat and a bite to eat with Caroline if she’s lucky, after which she makes cupcakes for the diner, walks Chestnut, and goes to bed early. 

Her first paycheck hits her bank account on Friday afternoon, and when the alert pops up on her phone she has to check and re-check the amount three times before she finally remembers to breathe. She does a bit of an impromptu dance in the ladies’ room, earning her a raised eyebrow from one of Tony’s lab assistants, but she could not possibly care less. On Saturday, she has the day off while Caroline works later in the afternoon, but there is still plenty of time in the morning for a shopping spree. Their bills are paid and they have real food in their fridge and the stupid expensive toilet paper that doesn’t actually give you a rash, possibly for the first time since she moved in. The go out for lunch at a moderately-priced steakhouse that may as well have 3 Michelin stars for how good it tastes to have food made by someone other than themselves or Oleg. When Darcy accompanies Caroline to the diner for no reason other than to sit in a booth and bitch at Han while everyone calls her Max for a few hours, Earl encourages her to blow her first paycheck on anything she wants - and then gives her a stern lecture on saving the rest of what’s coming down the line. Darcy kisses him on the cheek and demands an apple pie. A la mode, since she’s filthy rich and everything now.

Basically, it’s way too easy. And she knows better than anyone that easy is dangerous to get sucked into. 

Well, okay. So it’s not as dramatic as that. Things are still going extremely well. She hadn’t expected - a year ago, two years - that she would be living back as Darcy Lewis, with Caroline still by her side, making enough money to actually open a savings account and casually stealing Captain America’s fries during her lunch breaks. And it’s great, it’s really great. But sometime after that first week or so, things start to deteriorate between her and Jane. She can’t say why, can’t identify a particular comment or incident that seems to have sparked something. All she knows is that their private ‘you had to be there’ jokes fall stale, conversation dwindles to painfully awkward small talk, and she finds herself with fewer and fewer tasks to do in the lab as the other (properly trained and attired) scientists easily step in to help Jane when she needs it and provide actual useful sciency advice.

Basically Darcy starts to feel superfluous. But that seems like such a petty, selfish emotion, so she doesn’t say anything.

And it’s not like it’s never happened before; she recalls with vivid clarity the listlessness that started to come over her when Erik joined them in Puente Antiguo. She loves Erik, and (though she totally gets why), she wishes he had stayed in New York rather than moving back home to Sweden. But Erik is also an Actual Scientist, and all of the things that had made her feel useful when it was just her and Jane out in their rickety little trailer started to dwindle away when there was someone else to advise her, to chide her to eat and sleep and take care of herself. Erik looked out for both of them, really, and if he was taking care of her then what was Darcy even there for? 

Kind of like now. But it’s cool, she guesses. She’s back here because she got she knows stuff she’s not supposed to and Nick Fury blackmailed her, not because she’s competent or qualified. That’s fine. She’s always known Jane didn’t actually _need_ her, and the things that seemed hilarious and special out in the desert when it was just them and the stars now seem dull and uninteresting compared to the weight of everything they’ve seen and experienced since then. At the end of the day, she and Jane were thrown together due to circumstance, not choice, and the quicker she starts admitting that to herself, the better. 

It’s actually quite easy to distract herself from it, because if there’s one thing Stark Tower is great at providing, it’s distraction. Literal explosions are practically a bi-weekly event, and in-between there are plenty of metaphorical explosions to keep everyone satisfied. Though all three of Stark Industries’ resident geniuses do indeed have their own aforementioned floors, it rarely seems to work out that each keeps to their own. Bruce likes the company, Darcy thinks, and Tony likes to antagonize people. Also, Bruce and Tony like to make moony eyes at each other. 

“The lab is for _science_ , not flirting!” Jane screeches at them as they’re flat-out giggling over something in the corner. Bruce at least has the decency to look a little embarrassed, but Tony just laughs and starts fiddling with things, which he knows drives Jane nuts.

“Sweetheart. They’re the same thing,” he counters. Jane marches across the room to pry something unidentifiable out of his hands (Darcy really doesn’t think she’s being hyperbolic when she says she’s the worst lab assistant _ever_ ).

“ _Out_ ,” she seethes. They leave, albeit with much grumbling from Tony. An hour later Bruce is back with a sheepish apology and an actual question. Twenty minutes after that, Tony follows him, and the cycle repeats. Darcy finds the entire thing incredibly entertaining.

Emily, true to her word, is also in the labs quite often looking for Tony, with messages for him to respond to and paperwork for him to sign. Darcy becomes Public Enemy Number One in his eyes for ratting him out, but in her defense Emily brings the best bribes - PopTarts for Jane and green tea for Bruce are standard, but both of them get so wrapped up in their work that oftentimes they don’t actually know where Tony has disappeared to - even if he explicitly told them before leaving. After a week or so, Emily has discovered Darcy’s secret weakness for cronuts, which are both exorbitantly expensive and also disallowed in both the diner and the apartment because Caroline claims that buying even one is “counterproductive to our goals and putting money right in the hands of our competitors!” (Darcy can recite the speech from memory at this point, right up to the high-pitched screechy voice at the end.) But Caroline is not there to scold her in Jane’s lab, and so she is quite happy to reveal Tony’s location in exchange for a mid-afternoon sugar coma.

She ends up having lunch with Emily several times a week as well. She initially tries to talk Jane into it, but she usually just waves her off and insists that she’d rather keep science-ing than eat. Which is expected, sure, that’s just Jane. But convincing her to step back from work used to be Darcy’s specialty. It used to be the one thing that actually made her feel useful as a lab assistant with no lab experience. Maybe Jane’s developed a higher tolerance due to repeated exposure, or maybe she’s just gotten better at ignoring her, but whatever the case she’s never willing to leave for a meal - not even one in the Tower cafe (which Darcy refuses to call by its official and stupid name), which is just a short elevator ride away. 

It’s not that she’s let the job consume her - Darcy will put strategically-placed PopTarts around and in front of her and when she returns later, those will be eaten. But never in Darcy’s presence, and never the leftovers she tries to bring as a peace offering. The whole thing just feels… _off_ , somehow. Not what she was expecting. 

But they’re different people than they were two years ago, and Stark Industries’ extravagant science play areas are a far cry from a rickety van in the middle of the New Mexico desert, so why _should_ it be the same? 

Emily, on the other hand, is a great lunch companion. Both of their hours are sporadic at best, so it’s not always feasible, but they can usually manage to squeeze in twenty minutes to chat at Emily’s desk and trade food from their lunch bags like grade schoolers. Darcy is uncertain the first time they both have an actual free lunch hour - Pepper is in a meeting and Jane is waiting for results to process - and Emily suggests they walk to an Italian place a block away from the Tower. Which is silly, because she actually has money in her bank account, for the first time in a very very long time. But it’s a habit long-since ingrained upon her not to spend an extra penny unless completely necessary - she and Caroline’s grand clothing splurge totaled only about a hundred dollars, a small portion of her paycheck. Another familiar habit is to snap off a snarky reply, but she reminds herself that SHIELD is probably a place where she wants to get along with people, and if she can’t do that with Emily, who is perhaps the nicest person Darcy has ever met, she doesn’t stand much of a chance. So, honesty then. Novel concept.

“I don’t know if I should spend the money,” she says bluntly. “This is the first time in a long time that I’ve been making much of anything at all, and there are about a million essentials that my roommate and I have been skimping on that we should probably be putting it towards.” Emily nods in understanding, which is frankly a little anticlimactic.

“I totally know the feeling,” she says. “We didn’t have a lot growing up, so my mom was always trying to cut corners. I hated going to sleepovers or camping trips, because rather than buy little travel-sized shampoos or conditioners, she’d pour some of ours into old ketchup and mustard bottles. Inevitably, somebody would notice, and I would have to explain.”

“Well, you could have had a mom who made most of your bath products at home so that you reeked of patchouli all the time,” Darcy counters. “I still can’t smell the stuff without gagging.” Emily laughs and grabs her purse from the coat hanger. 

“Come on, my treat,” she insists. Darcy doesn’t say anything, but her face must betray her, because Emily sighs and throws her hands on her hips.

“Now are you one of those difficult ones that refuses to let other people do nice things for you?” she demands. 

“…Yes?” Emily sighs.

“Fine. Pay me back, then. I hear you bake.” Darcy narrows her eyes.

“You hear that from who?” she responds. Not that she should really be surprised - fucking SHIELD drones probably even know about the goddamn gnomes under her bed. Emily shrugs.

“Bring me cupcakes and maybe I’ll tell you.”

She doesn’t, for the record, even after Darcy shorts the diner a dozen chocolate mints. But she thanks her profusely, and they work out a bit of a system in which Emily pays for lunches out (which aren’t really that common anyway due to how busy they both are), and Darcy repays her with pastries. While extremely sleep-deprived one night (and maybe slightly tipsy on a pack of $3 wine coolers she bought at the gas station), Darcy insists to Caroline that the world at large should adhere to this policy. Caroline thankfully is able to stop her before she picks up the wall phone to inquire if they can pay their rent in cupcakes.

Whenever she brings treats for Emily, she always leaves one for Jane. Jane pretends not to notice, but the empty wrappers in the garbage can tell another story. Darcy runs back to the lab one afternoon to grab the cell phone she left sitting on a desk, and Jane jumps up from where she’d been devouring the cinnamon strudel Darcy had left there this morning. She looks guilty, like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar. Darcy bounces nervously from one foot to the other, not sure how to react. Jane puts the cupcake down and turns back to her work, taps a few things on her tablet, and Darcy goes ahead and grabs her phone. She’s almost out of the room when she hears:

“The lemon meringue ones were my favorite.” Jane doesn’t look up at first, but when she does there’s a hint of a smile on her face, and Darcy grins back.

She dumps three dozen in carefully packaged boxes right onto Jane’s spreadsheets the next morning. Jane rolls her eyes and sighs, but that hint of a smile is still curling at her mouth, and she blows through three before the afternoon rolls around and Darcy gets a text from Emily:

**Got a little time after 1. Come up for lunch?**

**nah** , Darcy texts back. **im good here.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint enjoys Darcy's cupcakes. And that is not a metaphor, he swears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So real life has decided to calm down a little. I am okay with this development. I love this story more than words can say, and have no plans to abandon it, despite much evidence to the contrary.
> 
> This chapter (and some Clint-related story elements from here on out) works a lot better if you've read the Matt Fraction Hawkguy comics. It's not necessary, but be forewarned it might be a bit of a culture shock to those not familiar with that environment and that characterization of Clint.
> 
> Soundtrack: 'aw, hawkeyes, no' (8tracks)

Okay… this looks bad.

At least Darcy acknowledges this; though pathetic would probably be the better word, actually. She makes a face and shifts the weight of the cupcake box in her hands, which has successfully made it through the ridiculously overpriced cab ride (she has learned her lesson about cupcakes and the subway), and the five floor walk-up (seriously, can Avengers not afford to live somewhere with fucking _elevators_?). 

But it’s not pathetic. At least that’s what she tells herself. The truth of the matter is that SHIELD is a tough place to get your foot in the door, especially when you were hired without having to do any sort of tests or training, you work in a department full of science types and have no science skills of your own, and your boss… doesn’t hate you (Darcy doesn’t think), but still isn’t quite giving the warm welcome you’d hoped for. She’s got Caroline, but Caroline is at the diner all day, and she’s got Steve and Pepper and Emily, all of whom have their own lives and jobs to worry about. So she’s got to make friends where she can find them.

And maybe that’s where the pathetic part comes in, because assuming that a dude you banged in an alley in broad daylight is going to be your new work buddy and attempting to bribe him with cupcakes is… well… Okay. So maybe it is a little pathetic. But weirdly, even though he’s an Avenger and probably armed to the teeth at any given moment, he’s the least intimidating person she’s met so far at SHIELD. She supposes that says more about Clint than anything, but it still feels a little odd. 

Not as odd as hovering outside someone’s door balancing cupcakes and fending off curious glances from the neighbors though, so Darcy sighs, and knocks.

She’s obviously expecting Clint to answer the door. Possibly Natasha. Maybe even a roommate. Any of these would not have surprised her. What she gets, however, is a girl. A very young girl. She’s in yoga pants and a sports bra, sweat-drenched with sharp blue eyes and dark hair sitting messily on the top of her head, a bottle of deep plum nail polish clutched in one hand and her toes half-painted.

“I, uh… I may have gotten the wrong apartment,” Darcy stammers, even though that’s a total lie, because if the spartan furnishings she can see weren’t enough of a clue, then the longbow hanging from the back wall most definitely is. The yellow labrador padding through the apartment throws her for a bit of a loop, though. 

“Are you looking for Clint?” the girl asks in a husky alto. She’s poised and self-assured, that much radiates through even in this simplest of exchanges, and as Darcy nods she gets the sinking feeling that she’s walking into something far beyond her and whatever strange non-friendship she’s so far established with Clint. She’s still clutching the cupcake carrier. The girl looks her up and down. Oh god this is going to get humiliating so fast… 

“Hold on just a second,” the girl says, and crosses the apartment to the open window. She moves gracefully, and as someone who has hobbled around her own apartment nearly killing herself in an effort to keep freshly-painted toenails dry, Darcy decides that she kind of hates her. She leans half-out onto the fire escape, yelling “Hey, Hawkeye!” at the top of her lungs. A few moments later, his voice comes calling down from what Darcy assumes is the roof.

“What do you want?” he asks, sounding impatient. “I told you I’d be down when I finished.”

“Since when do you have a girlfriend?” she inquires by way of response. There’s a strangled noise, followed by Clint’s:

“What the fuck, Kate.”

“There’s a hot chick at your door, and she brought cupcakes. Get your ass down here or I’m eating all of them. _All_ of them.” Kate ducks inside again and crosses back to Darcy. “If you suddenly come to your senses and realize what an idiot Barton is, I’m totally single,” she says. “And I like raspberry.” Darcy laughs nervously.

“Noted,” she responds, still mentally trying to process what just happened in the past thirty seconds. Kate gestures her inside and closes the door behind her, dropping into what’s obviously her spot on the well-worn couch, if the magazines and nail polish bottles littering the coffee table in front of it are any indication. The dog trots forward a few steps, but she gestures him away.

“Lucky, no,” she warns. “Dog hair and nail polish do not mix, we’ve had this discussion before.” Darcy perches gingerly on the armchair across from Kate, and Lucky immediately comes to stand by her side, nosing at the cupcakes. Kate sees this and sighs. “Sit,” she commands. Lucky whines, but flops into a sprawl at Darcy’s feet.

“I didn’t know Clint had a dog,” she blurts out, for lack of anything better to say. But with the fond look that Kate throws him, it’s clear Lucky is a subject she’s willing to expand on.

“He’s Clint’s dog in the sense that technically his name is on the collar. But he stole him from some mafia guys, and half the time he’s out superhero-ing, so it’s usually me or the kids down the hall that end up feeding and walking him.” She finishes the last few bare toes of her right foot in short order, as Darcy tries to carefully balance the cupcakes on her lap while bending down to pat Lucky’s head. She doesn’t catch the younger girl looking anywhere other than her pedicure, but she gets the distinct feeling that she’s being studied.

“Well you’re not an Avenger,” she finally states, busying herself with re-capping bottles and tossing out soiled tissues and cotton balls. “I’ve never seen you around the building. And you don’t exactly fit into Clint’s usual mold of bad decision bimbo. As far as I know, nobody’s trying to kill him this week, but if you’re undercover you’re damn good.” Darcy has to laugh as Kate finally looks her in the eye, visibly perplexed.

“I work at SHIELD,” she says. Kate’s frown deepens.

“Clint avoids SHIELD like the plague. Especially the women, ever since that incident with Maria Hill. I’m convinced it still gives him nightmares. And you’re not armed, or wearing all black.”

“Maria does give off that air that she crushes men’s genitals for funsies,” Darcy agrees. “And I work in the labs.”

“Which Clint also avoids, because where there is science there is Tony Stark.” She’s kind of enjoying having a tiny bit of the upper hand, but Kate’s demeanor has gone from curiously friendly to downright suspicious, and despite her age and size she doesn’t look like someone Darcy wants to tangle with, so she gives it to her straight.

“I’m just a lab assistant. I met Clint by accident during the attack.” Kate purses her lips, glancing at the cupcakes, and Darcy can feel a really awkward defense about to come out, because she knows exactly what she looks like right now. Thankfully, Clint chooses that moment to climb through the open window, a bow and quiver slung across his shoulder. Lucky jumps up and trots over to him, butting his head against Clint’s thigh enthusiastically, but he barely seems to notice, his eyes focused on Darcy.

“Hey,” he says, a bit bewildered. Darcy tries to smile, but worries that she’s just twisting her face into some awkward, indeterminate expression.

“Hi,” she returns. They blink at each other for several moments, studiously ignoring Kate’s amused snort. Finally Darcy rises from the chair and brings the box over to Clint.

“So, I bake,” she says. “It’s not a big deal. But. I just wanted to say thanks. You know, for hearing me out on the roof. And for saving my ass from the Chitauri.” Clint says nothing, his hand absently moving to scratch Lucky behind the ear, and for a minute there she’s honestly considering just tossing the box at him and running out the door because she cannot handle this level of uncomfortable anymore. But then the corner of his mouth quirks up and he says:

“I thought you had already thanked me.” Darcy can’t help it - she bursts out laughing. It’s probably not _quite_ as funny as her reaction indicates, but half of it is nervous energy draining out of her. When she catches her breath again, she opens the box to display the two dozen cupcakes of assorted flavors.

“These taste better,” she deadpans. Clint doesn’t rise to the bait, but the twist to his mouth makes it obvious that it’s a near thing. Kate comes to hover over Darcy’s shoulder, thankfully oblivious to the subtext flying around.

“Shit, those are homemade?” she says in awe. Clint slaps the lid shut and glares at her.

“Don’t even think about it, Bishop,” he warns. Kate shrugs, unconcerned.

“Fine. Good luck doing your own grocery shopping.”

“I am a grown man Kate, I can handle the supermarket.” Kate snorts again.

“Of course you can,” she agrees placatingly, ruffling his hair. Clint shoots her a death glare that he probably means to be intimidating, but instead makes Darcy bite her lip to keep from smiling. Kate meets her eye and grins. “So, speaking of food. You should stay for dinner.” Clint’s expression doesn’t change, but she hears an unintelligible noise. 

“I don’t want to intrude,” Darcy says smoothly. Which is impressive, given that internally she’s just screaming ‘ABORT, ABORT!’ over and over. “I just wanted to drop off the cupcakes, say hello, say thank you. Nobody’s seen you around the Tower for awhile, and I didn’t trust these sitting on a desk somewhere.”

“It’s no intrusion,” Kate promises. “No matter how much he cooks, we always end up with extra.” Darcy blinks at Clint.

“You cook?” she asks. He shoots her a withering look.

“Try not to sound so shocked.” Kate cuts him off with an eye roll.

“He doesn’t cook, he grills. There’s no skill involved except trying not to set things on fire. And he doesn’t even always manage that.”

“It was _one time_ ,” Clint seethes through clenched teeth.

“Anyway, half the building will be there, and a lot of times they bring over extra people anyway,” Kate continues on, all but ignoring Clint. “It’s really not a big deal, nothing fancy or anything.” 

She doesn’t seem to be playing nice for Clint’s benefit, as far as Darcy can tell. Not that she gets the impression that’s something Kate is ever in any habit of doing, it’s more that her own paranoia and social awkwardness tend to imagine that scenario fairly regularly. Still, it feels too intrusive. She had hoped to get a chance to talk to Clint, thank him for his sound advice on the roof, but this is starting to feel like she’s stalking him. And she’s got enough problems in her life right now, she doesn’t need a restraining order against an Avenger on top of the rest of it.

“I, um…”

“I still need to get ice and hot dog buns,” Kate interrupts, slipping her feet into a pair of flip-flops and grabbing a small black purse from the floor beside the couch. Before Darcy realizes what’s happening, she finds herself being yanked along, the grip on her forearm so strong it could only come from an archer. “You’re coming with me,” Kate says, in a tone that brokers no argument. Darcy shoots a panicked look at Clint, who is mostly stone-faced but she swears she sees a glint of amusement under there somewhere.

“Get mustard, too,” is all he says.

~*~

The party is in full swing by the time Darcy gets a minute to catch her breath. She enjoys Kate, she swears, but the girl is downright exhausting. She blows through the supermarket with brutal efficiency, all the while keeping up a steady stream of conversation peppered with unsubtle questions about Darcy. Which, don’t get her wrong, could totally just be her misinterpreting Kate’s kindness and interest, but… please. Like she doesn’t realize she’s sizing her up.

Back at the building, they start carrying things up the rickety fire escape to the roof. Darcy wonders again but does not ask why an Avenger chooses to live in an elevator-less death trap, but it’s probably nicer than her first apartment, so. Whatever. 

It’s not a high-rise or anything, and the view isn’t all that great, but it’s clear that a lot of time is spent up on the roof regardless. Darcy spies archery targets, a mini mini-golf course, about a dozen scattered lawn chairs, and a grill that Clint begins to scrub down in the same loving, familiar way that Jane cradles her instruments. Darcy follows Kate’s lead (she doesn’t get the sense that she has much of a choice in that matter) and arranges the food, plates, and utensils on a card table that has seen better days. She sneaks a few surreptitious glances at the play of muscles along Clint’s forearms as he works, and tells herself Kate doesn’t notice because that’s the less mortifying option.

He’s just got the first few pieces of meat cooking when, by some unspoken signal (or the smell of sizzling hamburger), people start appearing from the staircase bearing food. There’s a slender African-American woman with two rowdy kids in tow, both of whom immediately flock to Clint and nearly spill the big bag of chocolate chip cookies they’ve already started digging into. There’s a young, preppy-looking couple that delivers a noodle casserole of some sort. A girl with pink hair and a nose ring carries homemade hummus. A middle-aged man in a rumpled suit sheepishly hands Darcy a deli tray, clearly an afterthought from the same supermarket around the corner that she and Kate visited earlier. Even the knot of gangly teenage boys, who seem to communicate mostly by way of shouting insults and shoving each other, do not come empty-handed - the smaller one that trails after the others like the Wait For Me Puppy unceremoniously plops a giant bag of M&Ms onto the table. Darcy watches in awe as a party suddenly materializes out of nowhere.

“Yeah, this is kind of a regular thing,” Kate tells her, fishing through the cooler for a beer. “Whenever the weather’s nice, at least. Couple nights a week during the summers.” Darcy is still a bit flabbergasted, watching Clint hoist one of the boys up on his shoulders. “Not what you expected?”

“I don’t really have much to base an opinion off of,” Darcy admits. “I don’t know Clint all that well. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen him really smile before now, so… that’s different.” Kate snorts into her drink, but she only gets in a quick sip before Clint spots her.

“Bishop!” he hollers. “I see that!” Sighing, Kate passes the beer to Darcy. 

“I’m mentally ten years his senior yet still he flips out about underage drinking,” she mutters. “Futzing unbelievable.” Darcy is not all too far out from her college days, and therefore has no such qualms on either legal or moral grounds.

“I’ll pour it into a cup and hand it to you as soon as his back is turned,” she promises. Kate grins. 

“I like you,” she declares. It’s very much the seal of approval one would be seeking from the friend-slash-ward-slash-who even knew of the guy she was romantically interested in, but the fact remains that Darcy honestly isn’t romantically interested in Clint. She’s intrigued, sure, and god but he’s pretty to look at, but like she already told Kate, she barely knows the guy. It makes her more than a little uncomfortable, but she doesn’t know what to say that wouldn’t make it infinitely _more_ uncomfortable, so she just waits until Clint is distracted by his grilling duties and hands Kate her now cleverly-disguised beer. She then grabs one for herself. She has a feeling she’s going to need it.

~*~

Darcy would not describe herself as a partier. She enjoys a good drink, don’t get her wrong; it’s the people she’s not so fond of. She usually ends up in the corner with a beer making snide comments under her breath. Or out loud, depending on how many of those beers she’s had. Caroline is the one with people skills - as evidenced by the size of her tips despite the fact that her waitressing skills have not improved even slightly over the past few years. 

And it’s not that any of Clint’s neighbors are being unwelcoming towards Darcy - quite the contrary, actually. Still, she can’t help feeling a little out of place. She doesn’t know the building, or the area, or the latest gossip, and no less than four people have asked her if she’s Clint’s new girlfriend. She’s considering slipping out unnoticed; scopes out the exits, and tries to calculate her chances of escaping unseen from Kate’s disturbingly watchful eye. Before she can make her move, however, Clint appears beside her balancing two full plates of food; burgers still steaming from the grill, and two fresh beers clutched in his other hand.

“Just so you know, you don’t have to hang around here if you have somewhere else to be,” he says by way of greeting, hopping to sit on the ledge Darcy has been leaning against. “Kate can be hard to say no to, but it’s good for her. Builds character and stuff.” He pauses, handful of potato chips halfway to his mouth. “Also you should ignore anything she’s told you about me, it’s all lies. That girl is a menace.”

“I like Kate,” Darcy says. Clint makes a face.

“Of course you do. It’s irritatingly difficult to dislike her.” He crunches thoughtfully through the mouthful (and a half) of chips before finally sighing. “All I’m saying is don’t feel obligated to stay on her account. Or on my account. She’s on this desperate quest to expand my social life, even though I’ve told her I am a grown man capable of maintaining relationships on my own, no matter what that little hoodlum says.” Darcy grins, hoping her relief isn’t as obvious as it feels.

“I was going to say pretty much the same thing to you,” she replies. “Don’t feel obligated entertain me or feed me or anything. I am also an adult, supposedly able to maintain my own relationships. I let you ride my horse, you saved the world. You gave me the world’s worst pep talk, I made you cupcakes. I’d say we’re even at this point.”

“Well, I haven’t tried the cupcakes yet, so that remains to be seen,” Clint says with a grin, halfway through devouring his burger. “And it’s cool. I like having you here.” Darcy chooses to respond to the first part of that statement only. Because she is, as previously discussed, an adult. An emotionally mature one, at that.

“Listen, my cupcakes are delicious, okay?” She does not mean anything dirty by it, at all, but Clint leers and wiggles an eyebrow at her, and she just sighs. “Keep it in your pants, Barton,” she blurts out, before she can think better of it. But Clint just keeps on grinning and stuffing his mouth with food. And it’s a really weird reason for everything to click into place, but in that moment he ceases being an Avenger, and a guy who’s probably battling some pretty serious mental demons, and someone who she’s already shared a public quickie with. In that moment he’s just a regular guy, making innuendos out of nothing and refusing to chew with his mouth closed, and that’s something Darcy can handle. That’s something so painfully normal that it’s almost boring. And frankly, she could use some normal and boring in her life given recent events. Darcy, of course, does not say any of this aloud, and instead chooses to focus on her burger. Which is, admittedly, pretty damn good.

“I meant it in the sense that you’re not really entirely SHIELD. Like, you’re not an agent. But you’re not a civilian either,” Clint clarifies. “I don’t have to pretend that I’m a personal trainer to maintain my cover, but I don’t have to play weird spy politics either.”

“Who the hell would believe you’re a personal trainer?” Darcy wonders aloud. Clint shrugs, already polishing off his second burger and mopping up spilt ketchup with a last pinch of bun.

“I come and go at odd hours, and I own a lot of sporting equipment. It’s enough to make it plausible. People don’t really care enough to look closer if it makes sense on the surface.” Darcy watches him out of the corner of her eye as she eats her burger at a pace meant for humans and not barnyard animals. Clint scarfs down another handful of potato chips and either doesn’t notice her scrutiny, or (more likely) doesn’t comment on it. And he’s totally right about people being willing to believe the lie, because it really only takes a few second to clock the bags under his eyes, the pallor to his skin, the nervous fidgeting where he repeatedly drums his heel against the brick and beats out a pattern on the styrofoam plate with his fingers. She figures the others probably haven’t noticed because they’re all dealing with fallout themselves, but the fact remains that Clint is very clearly not okay. Darcy guesses he’s probably being honest when he says he doesn’t mind her being here; she kind of gets the feeling like he could use the company.

It’s just at the point where it could potentially start to get awkward again when Kate bounds up to them. Well, more like she kind of wobbles; clearly no one else at this party shares Clint’s hang-ups about underage drinking. She very deliberately steals a cookie from his plate, dancing away from the hand that swats at her before throwing an arm around Darcy’s shoulders.

“So,” she says, warm boozy breath blowing against her cheek. “Having fun yet?”

Clint, she notes, is doing a downright awful job of turning his head and pretending not to care about the answer, but her smile is genuine when she tells Kate:

“Yeah, I really am.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m catching up on 2BG, because RL has been a lot lately and I’m behind on EVERYTHING, and guys. GUYS. THE DUDE FROM THE APPLE STORE IN CAP2. THE DUDE THAT WORKS AT THE NYC APPLE STORE IS NOW EATING IN MAX’S NYC DINER. I'M TELLING YOU THIS STORY IS BASICALLY CANON.

It’s a Saturday, but still Darcy finds Jane exactly where she expected her to be: hunched over a notebook in the lab, nose almost to the paper as she scribbles furiously. She doesn’t hear her come in, doesn’t answer when she calls, and jumps nearly a foot in the air when Darcy slams a plastic tub filled with food down onto the counter next to her.

“I’m not hungry,” she says reflexively. Darcy snorts and thumbs her phone’s lock screen.

“Well, seeing as though it’s just after 9 PM, and my guess is that the last time you ate was sometime before 9 _AM_ , I’m gonna call bullshit. Also it was most likely something sugary and not at all substantial, no matter how many times I have told you that Pop-Tarts and donuts, while delicious, do not count as actual meals. So. Eat.” 

Jane looks ready to protest, but she makes the mistake of glancing at the food. Most of Clint’s neighbors had taken plates back home, and when Darcy had attempted to leave empty-handed, Kate had caught her and loaded her down. It’s a little cold after the subway ride from Bed-Stuy, but that does nothing to dull the aroma, and Jane’s stomach growls despite her resolve face. Darcy opens the lid and slides it towards her. “Come on. Woman cannot survive on pastries alone. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Jane makes a face at her, but reaches for a deviled egg. Doing a mental victory dance, Darcy throws a burger into the microwave and grabs some plastic utensils from the mini-kitchen in the corner. Even though she’s stuffed to the gills, she makes a show of taking a few bites of potatoes. It’s an old trick, but it still works like a charm - Jane is far more likely to eat if Darcy does too, rather than just staring and chastising. She scarfs down the whole burger in a matter of moments, still absently jotting things down in her notebook every few seconds, and then even has some vegetables. Darcy is sorely tempted to leave it at that, her mission accomplished, but she fights the urge. Still, it takes her until the Tupperware is running on empty before she finally takes a deep breath and blurts out:

“I really miss you, you know.” Jane looks up from her work, startled, and opens her mouth to respond, but Darcy talks right over her, determined to get this out before she loses her momentum. She’s spent the day hanging out with an Avenger who is technically an ex-lover, his teen sidekick, his weird neighbors, and his half-blind dog. There is no way that she is going to be more intimidated by a woman she used to have 3am underwear dance parties with in a trailer a quarter the size of the office they’re currently in.

“I mean, I see you every day, but… it’s weird, right? Please tell me it’s not just me that feels weird. I get that a lot has changed, and that we’re not out in the middle of the desert anymore, but. I had fun out there with you, even with all that happened, and. I miss that. A lot. Maybe that’s just not an option right now, and that’s probably my fault, but I wanted you to know that I really love you, and I hope we can find a way to go back to being friends again. Maybe not the same way we were before, but. I want to try.”

She’s not sure what she expects to happen, but still she’s surprised when, after a few moments of stunned silence, Jane launches herself forward out of her chair and practically knocks Darcy to the ground with the force of her hug. She starts, but hugs her back. Until Jane pulls away and punches her in the arm. And damn she may be tiny, but that fucking _hurts_.

“What the hell, Jane?!” she exclaims. Jane’s eyes are bright with fury, tears, and confusion - as if she’s not sure which she’s supposed to be feeling right now, but still it’s got her vibrating with emotion.

“You just _left_!” she yells. Darcy winces, the full force of the guilt she’s felt like an undercurrent all these years finally slamming into her full-force. “We had just discovered something,” Jane continues. “We opened a door to another planet, another reality! And then suddenly Thor’s gone, which I kind of expected, because we all knew that was too good to be true. But then you were gone, and Erik was gone, and the whole _town_ was gone. I hated that fucking town, and suddenly I was stuck out there, _by myself_ , trying to figure out if any of it had even happened, or if I had actually gone crazy.”

“I didn’t know Erik was going to leave,” Darcy says meekly.

“ _That’s not the point!_ ” Jane fumes. “ _You_ left. You were supposed to be my friend, and you left me out there! After all we had been through!” Darcy fidgets nervously, starts to speak but then stops herself, then starts again. This sucks, and she is the absolute worst at talking about her feelings, but if they don’t do this now she doesn’t think she can take another few weeks of hemming and hawing and tiptoeing around each other.

“Were we though?” she asks bluntly. Jane blinks in confusion. “Friends. I mean… we don’t have anything in common. I was only in Puente because nobody else was desperate enough for the extra credits. Jane, we spent more than half of our time fighting about the radio station in the van, whose turn it was to wash the like six fucking dishes we had… I specifically remember a monumental blowout about which was the best flavor of Slurpee, which I’m pretty sure qualifies as the lamest fight of all time.” Jane is peering at her as intently as if she were one of her machines, and it makes Darcy squirm. “I honestly didn’t think it would make that much difference to you if I left,” she concludes meekly. Jane continues to study her for several more extremely uncomfortable moments, before finally looking down at her hands.

“You’re kind of the best friend I’ve ever had,” she admits. Darcy’s mouth falls open, but no words come out. It’s not often that she’s rendered speechless, but she honestly doesn’t know how to respond to that. Jane glances back up at her through her eyelashes, and quickly ducks her head again. “Sorry if that’s weird,” she says, her voice thick. Darcy shakes her head, even though Jane still isn’t looking at her.

“No, it’s not weird,” she reassures. “I just… didn’t realize. I mean I know we had fun, and we bonded, and I adore you, but I guess I thought that was more…”

“Stockholm syndrome?” Jane interrupts, finally looking back up. Darcy barks out a laugh.

“I dunno, aren’t kidnappers supposed to offer candy for you to get into their vans instead of college credits?”

“Don’t lie. Given the choice, you would’ve taken the credits.” Darcy hummed.

“Fair point.” The pause catches and holds, stretches out into an awkward silence, and Darcy is prepared for this. From out of her bag, she pulls up the treasure she spotted at a bodega down the street from Clint’s apartment. To be honest it was kind of what spurred her into showing up here; if finding it wasn’t a sign, she didn’t know what was.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Jane says with a laugh, but she’s already reaching over and taking the bottle of Pop-Tart flavored vodka from her hands.

“I thought we might need it,” Darcy says honestly, because it is a lesson she has learned well: alcohol makes awkward touchy-feely conversations like this one go much smoother. Jane laughs again.

“There are glasses in the cabinet.”

~*~

Okay, so it’s possible that Darcy miscalculated. At least in the sense that she was planning for silly drunken giggling conversations, and instead what they’re mostly doing is screaming at each other across the sidewalk while everyone in the vicinity patently ignores them, because this is New York. (That’s probably for the best, as at least half of what’s being said is technically classified information.) In the sense that she expected alcohol to bring out the honesty, however, they seem right on track.

“I can’t believe you knew they were watching me this whole time!” she fumes.

“They’re SHIELD, what did you expect?” Jane counters.

“I expected you to have my back! You know, like I had yours when they busted in to steal all of your research and equipment.”

“I think this is a little different.”

“How? How is this different? I yelled in Nick Fury’s face when I found out they had shipped you off to Norway.”

“They sent me there for protection.”

“Bullshit! This is still SHIELD trying to run our lives, and I thought we were very clearly against that.”

“At least I knew you were safe!” Jane screams, her voice taking on a shrill note of hysteria, and Darcy immediately feels bad. “At least then I knew that if Loki came back for you, you had someone who could protect you.”

“I would rather have taken my chances on my own than have my every move be documented and recorded,” Darcy argues, but she’s losing steam fast, and it lacks the vehemence she means it to have.

“You think I don’t know that? But you’re so stupidly stubborn, and you wouldn’t answer the phone, or my emails, and what else was I supposed to do?”

“Check Emily Post,” Darcy finally cracks after a beat of embarrassed silence. “There’s got to be an ‘Etiquette Guide for Alien Invasions’ by now.” Jane glares at her, but shuffles a few steps forward and slings an arm around her waist. Her movements are slow and jerky due to the alcohol, and they end up swaying precariously to one side more than actually hugging, but Darcy can’t bring herself to care.

~*~

“I had nightmares about it,” she confesses, the words nearly lost in the clatter of the subway car. Jane shifts against her side, their arms around each others’ shoulders as if afraid to let go. “I would wake up screaming, convinced that he had come back. Loki. That I would look outside my window and the Destroyer would be there, ready to burn me to a crisp.”

“When I got off the plane in Oslo, every TV had his face on it,” Jane says quietly. “I thought he was coming for me, for you, for Erik.” Darcy flinches, because they both have been made painfully aware of the fact that he did, in fact, come for Erik.

“SHIELD won’t give me his contact information. I wanted to try and talk to him, maybe… I don’t know. I don’t know what I could possibly do to make it better, but…”

“Don’t bother,” Jane says hollowly. “I left him so many messages I filled up his voicemail, and he still hasn’t responded.” That sends a chill down Darcy’s spine. She doesn’t know any of the details of what happened, just that both he and Clint were under Loki’s spell; no one will tell her anything more concrete than that, and she doesn’t trust the SHIELD rumor mill. All she knows is that it was enough to keep Clint from coming around the Tower most days and to send Erik running, but Jane is like a daughter to him. The notion that he has cut himself off from her, of all people, honestly scares Darcy a little. Two years out of Puente and it seems like none of them could have ever possibly run far enough. She shuffles against the cold plastic seats and cuddles closer to Jane as the half-rebuilt streets of New York whiz past them.

~*~

This is familiar; Darcy and Jane, curled up on a couch and sipping the last dregs of a bottle of vodka out of coffee mugs. This is like half of their nights in Puente, even being indoors instead of on the roof of the old car dealership. It puts something inside of both of them at ease, Jane leaning into Darcy’s side and tinny music coming out of her crappy little iPod speakers. It’s nice.

“I miss the desert sometimes,” Jane murmurs, her words slurred and her movements slow and sleepy. Darcy is on the verge of passing out too, and the chuckle that she intends to be derisive comes out sounding more fond than anything. Who is she kidding, though? She misses it sometimes, too. Still, she can’t help but tease:

“Sharing a trailer the size of a prison cell? The only stores for miles being a grain and feed store or the 7-11? Sand in literally every crevice of your body, including a few I didn’t even know existed?”

“That grain and feed store had the best oatmeal in the world.”

“True,” Darcy conceded. There’s an extended pause, and she almost thinks Jane has finally fallen asleep, before she starts up again.

“Is it weird that I liked having someone to fight with?” she asks. “After you were gone, it was so _quiet_. Nobody stole my food or moved my stuff or digitized my notes without me asking, and I never thought I would miss that.”

And that’s it. After everything, that’s what it takes (well, and probably the alcohol has a hand in it) for tears to suddenly come streaming down Darcy’s face without warning. Jane doesn’t pull away when she starts making ugly sobbing noises, just cuddles closer, and Darcy would bet anything she’s crying too.

“I’m so sorry,” she says brokenly, because she realizes abruptly that they’ve gone this whole time and she hasn’t been able to bring herself to say the words. “God, I’m so sorry, Jane.”

“I never blamed you,” Jane whispers fiercely. Darcy chokes out a laugh.

“Liar,” she accuses.

“Okay, maybe a little,” Jane sniffs. “But just because I was being selfish. I didn’t want to be out there alone, and even though I totally would have run too if I had the chance, it was easier for awhile to be mad at you than at the situation. But I got over it.”

“You wouldn’t have run,” Darcy says, confident. “You faced down Coulson and tried to sneak into a government facility with a god that fell out of the sky onto our van just a day or two before. You, Jane Foster, are the bravest person I know.” Jane snorts, and Darcy pinches her arm, ignoring her squawk of protest. “And don’t you ever forget it,” she commands.

“I don’t feel brave,” Jane says softly.

“You are the only girl in Tony Stark’s secret braintrust of super-geniuses, what about that is not totally badass?” Darcy counters. Jane gives her a watery smile as she shrugs.

“I mean it’s great, the technology is so incredible I can’t even comprehend it sometimes, but… it just starts to get lonely. I mean Bruce is nice enough, but Tony I kind of want to strangle most days, and I miss you, and I miss Erik, and I miss Thor. God, I miss Thor. I had all these fantasies about the strange little life we were all going to lead out in New Mexico, and even though I knew it was never going to happen, I still wanted it to. It felt familiar. Safe. This… SHIELD and Stark Industries are a great career opportunity, sure, but… I guess I just need more than that.”

That, Darcy can totally sympathize with, and it’s so nice to hear someone else say it. To hear that even Jane, who basically has her dream job, feels uncomfortable and out of place sometimes. Darcy loves Caroline, loves the life she’s built for herself in the wake of Loki, loves Steve and Kate and Clint and Emily and the new journey she’s just starting to dip her toes into, but there are times when she, too, misses the simplicity of life in New Mexico, stargazing on the roof of the trailer and eating cold cereal for dinner and bickering over nothing.

“I think things were easier out there,” she says carefully. “I think it was great being totally cut off from the outside world, like seriously, because sometimes the outside world really really sucks. But it’s always there. Hell, we were in the middle of nowhere and we still managed to have contact with not only the outside world, but _whole other worlds_. I mean, that’s got to be, like… an omen, or something. Right?”

“I haven’t been to Sunday school in awhile, but I don’t remember anything in the Bible about tasering hot aliens in the desert.”

“There should’ve been.”

“Might not have skipped so many Sunday schools,” Jane agrees. Her breathing slows, eyes closing, and Darcy nudges her with her shoulder.

“Okay, come on. This couch is not built for two people, no matter how tiny you are.” Jane put up a token protest, but lets Darcy practically shovel her into the bedroom. It’s not the easiest task when you combine both of their impaired equilibriums. They thankfully took off their shoes and jackets when they came inside, so all that Darcy is left to contend with is pants. And it’s not even that weird; she’s lost count of all of the times she put Jane to bed after finding her face-down in her research.

“I miss Thor,” Jane whines again, as Darcy shimmies her jeans over her knees. She sighs, adding her own pants to the pile.

“I miss him too. He gave the best hugs.”

“More than hugs.” Darcy slips in next to her and pulls the blankets up over them.

“Gross.” She doesn’t complain when Jane snuggles up against her, because she’s not eager to let the other woman out of her grip. She’s at the sloshy, light-headed end of drunk where everything feels distant and surreal. Like if she wakes up tomorrow, this conversation may not have actually happened, and she’s not sure she has the emotional capacity to have it again. Right now though, she has Jane safe and warm at side, and she clutches her tightly against the irrational fear that she and this night are just going to vanish into thin air the second she leaves her sight.

“I know Thor and Erik are gone, and everything’s different, but… you’ve got me. You know that, right?”

“Duh,” Jane huffs out, and Darcy feels something inside of her chest settle. That gnawing guilt she’s carried around for the last two years is probably always going to be there, in some form, but for the first time since leaving Puente Antiguo it doesn’t feel like it’s looming right at her back, waiting for the first opportunity to overwhelm her completely. It slides to the background, overpowered by Jane’s slow, even breathing and the lingering scent of lab chemicals. Darcy blows out a sigh and feels a fresh round of tears coming. Slower this time though, less urgent and more cathartic. Jane reaches out and tangles their fingers together as the first one hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record: KATE BISHOP IS NOT A SIDEKICK. Darcy is hyperbolizing and trying to psych herself up. She is quite clear on how awesome Kate is, all on her own.
> 
> Also, let me state that discovering Pop-Tart flavored vodka doesn’t actually exist was one of the saddest moments of my life.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have come to the terrifying realization that this is going to be one of those ridiculous, 40-plus-chaptered stories that never seems to end. I never really got that before, how and why someone could/would want to write like that, but… yeah. It’s looking like that’s what’s happening here. I have an endgame though, I swear, I just have a crap-ton of stuff I want to cover as we’re working up to it.
> 
> Also Jane and Darcy make me cry. It's possible I relate more than I care to to certain aspects of their friendship.

Darcy groans when she awakens to a mouth like the Sahara and jackhammers going to town inside her skull. After a few moments of re-orienting herself with the world, she realizes that the jackhammers are actually real, and doing construction in the street outside her apartment. Not that it makes much difference either way to her death hangover; fucking aliens, man.

There's a perfunctory knock before Caroline cracks open the bedroom door. 

"I assume we know the small woman drinking all our coffee?" she asks. Darcy groans and waves a hand in her general direction. "I'm taking that as a yes," she assumes, and Darcy hears the clack of her heels receding. God, what time is it that she's already dressed? Then again, she would not be surprised in the slightest if Caroline slept in her heels. She groans, and buries her face deeper into the pillow. 

By the time she finally manages to drag herself out of bed, Caroline has left for work, leaving Jane perched on a stool drinking a cup of coffee from a mug so big her fingers can't even wrap all the way around it.

"You are a terrible influence, just so you know," Darcy informs her, pouring her own cup. Jane is listless and bleary-eyed, clutching the ceramic like a lifeline.

"Don't care, need caffeine," she mumbles, taking a large sip. Darcy shrugs and follows suit. Eventually, she rummages through the fridge and finds some food, and over stale bagels and nearly-expired orange juice, she keeps waiting for the quiet to lapse into awkwardness. But it turns out that discussing your feelings like adults really eases the tension in a room, and she's pleasantly surprised to find that it's comfortable, just to be sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at her beat-up kitchen counter in total silence.

It's Darcy that finally breaks it, which comes as little surprise to either of them.

“Do you have to go in to work today?” It’s the weekend, but it’s still a valid question; Jane’s self-imposed schedule has no rhyme or reason that Darcy has ever been able to discern, despite the fact that SHIELD has her on a standard Monday-Friday 9-5. 

"No, I'm not supposed to come in..." she says, letting the words trail off. Darcy doubts she realizes she's doing it.

"But you want to," she guesses. Jane gives her a sheepish smile.

"If you don't mind taking me back." It's not that complicated - one subway hop and two blocks on foot, but directions are very much not Jane's strong suit. Darcy vividly recalls picking her up from the side of the road once, ten minutes outside of Puente, still stubbornly trying to find the post office that was very clearly back in the other direction.

“Well I don't know about you, but if I’m expected to face the world today, I could use some real food. Like, terrible greasy hangover food." And it's a sign of just how much Jane is feeling last night's escapades that she immediately nods, not even bothering to feign a full stomach and sneak off to work like she normally does.

"French fries," she croaks. Darcy grins and hops off of her stool. 

"French fries are basically the only medicine anyone ever needs," she agrees. "Come on, you have Caroline’s same pre-pubescent boy chest, you can borrow something of hers."

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a shirt of Caroline's that hits just above her knee and a pair of Darcy's sunglasses perched on her nose, Jane makes a pathetic whiny noise when they step outside into the sunlight.

"The hangover is a small price to pay for the deliciousness of pop-tart flavored vodka. _Pop-tart flavored vodka_ , Jane," Darcy reminds her. Jane shakes her head.

"It's not that, it's..." she makes an expansive gesture. "Williamsburg? Really?" And yeah, okay, Darcy will give her that one. The kid with the white-boy dreads and the Care Bears t-shirt playing the bongo drums on a neighboring porch isn't everyone's cup of tea. She gets that.

"It has its good points," she insists. "For instance..." They exit the alleyway at exactly the right moment, so that she can present the diner with a grand 'ta-da' gesture. "This is where I have, until very recently, been selling my soul for rancid meat and stale donuts."

"For someone on a never-ending quest to get me to eat more, you sure know how to turn a girl's stomach," Jane jokes, but there's something in her voice, her eyes, even though she won't meet Darcy's gaze. She isn't sure what that's about, but Jane still follows her as she pushes open the front door and hears the familiar bell jingle.

"Well well well, look what the cat dragged in," Earl sing-songs from the register. "Dining with the peasants tonight?" Darcy just smiles and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. He's grinning when she pulls back, and directs his attention towards Jane. "Doctor Foster, I presume?" Jane gapes.

"How did you..." she turns to Darcy. "How did he...?"

"He's the world's worst spy," Darcy says dryly, which isn't actually _too_ far off from the truth, but still Jane shoots her a glare that says she doesn't believe a word of it.

"I expect to still get my employee discount," she informs Earl, shaking a finger in his face menacingly as she hustles Jane to a booth in Caroline's section. Han lights on her before she even finishes her sentence.

"Oh no you don't, Max. You didn't earn your discount even when you _did_ work here! Aren't you rich and fancy with your new job now? You pay full price just like everyone else!" Darcy holds up a hand just a few inches in front of his face.

"Does your mother know where you are, small child?" she demands. "Shoo." He opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off. "Ah! I'm a customer now, you _have_ to be nice to me." Caroline sidles up beside him at that moment, and Han throws his hands up.

"You better hope she gives you a _big_ tip," he says, stalking off. Darcy and Caroline both wiggle from side-to-side in their well-rehearsed imitation of his angry waddle. Jane, silent on the other side of the booth, still has that indecipherable _look_ in her eye as Caroline hides a giggle behind her order pad.

"We need hangover food," Darcy declares, focusing on the task at hand. "Fries, lots of them. Two burgers, and two shakes. Biggest we got." Caroline raises an eyebrow, glancing over at Jane.

"Coffee thief," she greets. Jane smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

"Don't let her fool size fool you, she doesn’t eat a thing in weeks and then she inhales twice her bodyweight in one sitting," Darcy warns. "Better bring extra fries. Like, basically all the fries you have. _All_ of them."

"You make me sound like a bottomless pit," Jane whines.

"PizzaQuest '08," Darcy reminds her. "The 7-11 actually cut us off. I didn't think there was such a thing as a pizza limit, but we reached it. And by we, I mostly mean you." Jane glares and blushes simultaneously, ducking her head.

"I feel like 7-11 pizza was your first mistake," Caroline muses.

"You're not wrong," Darcy agrees. "But sometimes a girl just needs a slice, and when that's all there is..." Caroline chuckles as she fills their water glasses. 

"Well I applaud your ability to live somewhere without real pizza, I don't think I would have survived," she says, and tucks her order pad into her apron.

“Pizza or no, you wouldn’t last two days in the desert,” Darcy teases. “I mean for starters, we only had one mirror in the trailer.”

“The horror,” Caroline deadpans, with a bit of a glare and a hair toss. “And might I remind you that I just survived an alien invasion the other day, thankyouverymuch.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come back and talk to me after the next one.”

“I’m sorry we can’t all be badasses like you, Max,” she says sarcastically. Darcy honestly doesn’t even notice the slip, but Caroline immediately looks chagrined. “Sorry. Darcy,” she corrects. Darcy shrugs, and spares a glance at Jane, who is looking down and picking at her thumbnail.

“Whatever,” she says to Caroline, but she still looks off-put as she scurries back to the kitchen. Darcy sighs, focusing her attention on Jane.

“What’s with you?” she asks. Jane shrugs, but only barely glances up from the apparently thrilling view she’s getting of her cuticles. And it could very well be nothing; it could be the slam-dunk combo of hunger and hangover, it could be the million and one equations Darcy knows are running through her head right now, but she doesn’t really believe it. Fuck, hadn’t they gotten this all out of their systems last night?

But she doesn’t want to do this here, so she yells through the window to Oleg, and harasses Han some more, and greets Sophie when she strolls in dressed to the nines as usual. She isn’t even bothering to hide her gun in her purse these days, just strapping it to her thigh in a holster that looks designer…if designers were in the business of making holsters. Darcy would not doubt for a second that Sophie would know where to get couture weaponry accessories. Jane remains quiet, but it’s not as if anyone could get a word in edgewise around Sophie anyway. When their food comes, they devour every last bite, and Darcy does of course leave Caroline a huge tip. After parting shots (Han, Oleg) and goodbye hugs (Sophie, Caroline, Earl), Darcy steers Jane in the direction of the subway station that will take them to the Tower, but puts out a hand to halt her before they descend down the stairs.

“Okay, out with it,” she demands. Jane hems and haws for a minute, but Darcy isn’t in the mood, and she leans back against the railing with arms crossed and eyes expectant. 

“It’s going to sound stupid,” she mutters sullenly, like the very idea of an unintelligent thought flat-out offends her.

“Try me.” Jane scuffs her shoe against the pavement.

“It’s just that… I mean, I knew that you changed your name, and had a new job, and… I knew all of that. But I didn’t really realize, until today, just how… real that was?”

“Does that bother you?” Darcy asks, genuinely curious.

“I don’t know,” Jane admits, shrugging helplessly. “I just know that I got pretty attached to Darcy Lewis, and the thought of you having to hide that, having to hide who you are… it makes me a little sad, I guess. Which is irrational, I know, but…”

“Max Black was pretty awesome though,” Darcy points out. There are parts of life in New York that she despised - lots of parts - but she wouldn’t give up Caroline and Earl and their weird little diner family for the world. It’s not conventional, but she’s fiercely protective of it, especially with how it looks compared to a fancy life and career at Stark Tower.

“Max Black wasn’t the one who spent Sunday afternoons making cupcake experiments with boxed cake mix and anything else we could find. Or who made sure I always ate, and drank, and took a break every once in awhile. Or who ran through the town saving puppies when Loki showed up. That was Darcy Lewis, all the way.”

“Maybe I wasn’t ready to be Darcy Lewis again,” she says quietly. The defensive posture she’d put on droops a bit, and she shifts from arms crossed defensively to hugging herself around her ribs.

“That’s okay,” Jane says. “I would have been okay with that. I just wish you would have told me that you needed a break, instead of dropping off the face of the Earth.” 

Fuck it all, she’s crying again. Darcy angrily brushes tears from her cheeks, even as she says:

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Jane agrees, leaning over and sliding an arm around Darcy’s waist. It’s not a full-on hug, because they’re both starting to reach their limit when it comes to being vulnerable and talking about feelings, but it gets the message across.

So maybe things aren’t completely fixed, Darcy muses as she escorts Jane back to her lab. Maybe it’s going to be awhile until things are completely fine between them again. But maybe that’s okay. Because she loves Jane with all her heart, and she’s willing to work on it. And god, but that’s a huge step forward for her, especially after two years of forcing herself not to get attached to anyone. She’s done running, and maybe it’s time to face what that really means. What doors it can open, even though that elusive idea of a ‘normal life’ - whatever that even was - was clearly never going to be in the picture for her. But as they badge their way through the front doors of the Tower, Jane turns to her with an gleam in her eye and says:

“I have to wait for some date to compile. Wanna blow something up?”

Darcy thinks she can be okay with this version of her life.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all rock for sticking with me even though I am neurotic and spend months obsessing over one chapter. I always feel like I need to reiterate that though I may take long breaks, this story is always at the top of my writing priority list. It's fun, it's cathartic, it's rewarding, it's just that I am crazy and don't know when to stop editing. And this chapter in particular I really wanted to get right; I think there's probably a large portion of my audience that isn't overly familiar with 2 Broke Girls, but I wanted to make sure I showcased what a fabulous, strong character Caroline is.
> 
> Also, Steve is a Knicks fan because Fox Mulder is a Knicks fan; I know literally nothing about sports.

It’s been just under two months of waking up to silence, and Caroline still isn’t used to it. She’s never been a morning person, so the sound of Max clanging around the kitchen making cupcakes, dropping pans and swearing at the oven, had been a pretty effective alarm clock.

Not, not Darcy. Max. Shit. She’s still getting used to that, too.

In a way, it’s kind of nice. Her body has adjusted to rising at a semi-decent hour, and she has, appallingly, adjusted to living in Williamsburg; meaning that she no longer has the money or energy for what used to be a two hour beauty routine. Instead she takes her time, enjoys the morning. It’s become a weirdly zen thing, and Caroline loves Max-slash-Darcy, she really does, but zen is just not in her wheelhouse.

Nor is eating healthy, Caroline muses, as she has to push aside two-week-old Chinese takeout and a jug of full-fat chocolate milk to reach her container of yogurt. The produce drawer is blessedly empty, leaving plenty of room for a few of her grapefruits, because she’s not entirely sure Darcy could actually identify a vegetable if she saw one. They’re the good stuff, too - organic, high-grade. Caroline is currently limiting herself to one manicure a month at the grody nail salon near the diner that smells like rotten cheese in order to afford it, but she figures she can deal with bare nails for a little while in-between appointments if she can keep her cholesterol at a level fit for humans; this metabolism isn’t going to last her forever.

The Wall Street Journal would be another splurge; if she actually paid for it. To be fair, she’s pretty sure the apartment down the hall has been vacant for the past six months, and the last person she saw coming out of that door did _not_ seem like a Wall Street Journal kind of guy. (Maybe it was the pit stains, maybe it was the ZZ Top beard… she couldn’t put a finger on it.)

Pepper Potts’ name leaps out at her from a cover article. It’s becoming increasingly more common these days, but it never fails to get her excited. Women in power, particularly gorgeous women who are CEO’s of multi-million dollar powerhouse companies, are basically the best thing ever. Caroline loves her father, admires everything he built until he screwed up and started taking other people’s money, but she’s ready to see a shift in the landscape. She has plans to be three times the businessperson he ever was, and that can’t happen without the Peppers of the world to pave the way.

(Literally the _only_ thing stopping her from cutting out every article and tacking them to her vision board with sparkly heart stickers is the extent to which Darcy would make fun of her.)

In the time that used to be spent helping make cupcakes (but let’s be real mostly sitting at the counter gossiping and stealing swipes of icing, because she is not to be trusted baking anything), she’s started working out. She’s skinny only through a genetic miracle, because when she’s not kidding herself about trying to go vegan for the eight time, her diet for the past few years has consisted mainly of diner burgers, cupcakes, and Doritos. She still looks great, but she’s getting a little sick of being winded by the the stairs leading up to their apartment. Yoga had seemed like the least amount of effort, and after several mildly humiliating incidents, she’s mostly gotten the hang of the YouTube tutorials. 

She’s come to _enjoy_ it, even, especially when she picks up a used mat for a few bucks at a thrift store (she probably spent more on the bottle and a half of Lysol she used to hose it down with), and brings it out into the yard. Not only is she starting to develop the first tan she hasn’t sprayed on, but it’s nice to spend some extra quality time with Chestnut, too. He doesn’t even seem to mind when she uses him as a balancing block. She takes him for his morning walk-and-dump (Darcy will take him out again when she gets home in the evening), showers, and hangs out before getting ready for work. 

Or at least it _sounds_ all chill and luxurious when she describes it that way. But the reality is that her morning routine only eats up two to three hours tops, and she’s left with far more “hanging out” time than she cares for. The change in pace is nice, don’t get her wrong, and she’s so incredibly happy for and proud of Darcy. But Caroline has always been more comfortable with other people around. It’s always been her dad, or various baby-sitters and nannies, friends, boyfriends... Maybe that’s not so great, that she doesn’t feel comfortable being alone; she doesn’t know, she can’t afford a therapist anymore. All she knows is that when she’s got hours to spare rattling around the apartment, she starts to get even more neurotic than usual, worrying over irrelevant little details. Darcy is, among other things, quite an effective distraction from the fact that Caroline’s life is very much not where it is supposed to be according to her carefully-constructed five year plan.

She likes to think she’s doing an okay job of holding it together, though. She’d barely been out in the world a few days before Darcy had begrudgingly swept her underwing, so now she’s being forced to take a few baby steps into learning to be self-sufficient. The apartment is cleaner than it’s ever been, and she’s teaching herself Photoshop in an effort to design them a better-looking business card. She plays music for some background noise at home and keeps a closer watch of her surroundings on the subway. She’s dealing, the best that she can manage.

It’s better at the diner. A few years ago, she never would have deigned to consider Han, Oleg, and Earl friends. Now, she can’t imagine her life without them. Okay maybe that’s pushing it a little, she could definitely survive a few lifetimes without Oleg leering at her every time she drops something. But the fact remains that the girls she went to college with, the friends she grew up with, hell even quite a few family members - when dad’s money went, so did they. These people, people she definitely wouldn’t have looked twice at in her former life, were the people that took her in and let her screw up and were still there for her when she fell flat on her face. She honestly didn’t even realize until maybe a year or so ago that this is the first time in her life she’s had actual, real friends.

“Twenty-two days in a row, strolling through that door five minutes _before_ your shift instead of ten minutes after,” Earl crows from the cashier station. “Caroline, I hate to say it, but I feel like Max may have been a bad influence on you.”

“You’re just now figuring that out?” Caroline teases back, dropping a quick kiss onto his wrinkled cheek as she hangs up her coat. She takes the battered plastic cupcake carrier to the counter and carefully arranges two plates of chocolate strawberry cremes under the shining glass domes. They’re actually the nice, expensive ones that they splurged on for their shop - Caroline doesn’t even know why she felt the need to bring them to the diner, where they’re likely to get smashed any moment like the three before them, but it’s nice sometimes to have a reminder. Maybe not of the failure of going out of business, but that they got there in the first place was pretty damn impressive, if you ask her.

“Is one of those for me?” Sophie asks faux-innocently from the counter. She’s claimed a spot with a clear view of the kitchen, for obvious reasons. Caroline hides her eyeroll in turning to grab a dessert plate, sliding it gently across the counter. (There is no better hard evidence of her growth as a waitress than the fact that she actually gets to keep her paycheck these days, rather than have it all go towards replacing broken glassware.) Sophie assesses the average-sized cupcake with suspicion. “Yeah, better make that another one for me,” she amends. Oleg pokes his head out of the order window as she’s licking frosting from her finger.

“Haven’t you had enough cream filling for one day?” he asks, completely straight-faced. Caroline practically flees to the cooler. Oleg she can handle. Sophie she can handle. Together, they are a force she is still learning to contend with. Elizabeth, the new waitress, is already doing prep work when she walks in.

“Are they always like that?” she asks, wide-eyed. Caroline blows out a breath and moves to help her.

“This is them on a good day,” she replies. At least they haven’t started dry-humping in the bathroom. Yet; the night is still young. Elizabeth doesn’t respond, just doubles down on her duties. She’s a sweet girl, really, and five times the waitress Caroline will ever be, she has no problem admitting that. She also listens when Han tells her to do something, a fact that has immediately deemed her the golden child, but that doesn’t really bother Caroline either. The old Caroline might have objected to someone stealing the spotlight; new Caroline only cares that that at the end of the day, she’s not Darcy. She’s trying really hard not to hold that against her.

The dinner rush is starting earlier and earlier these days. Darcy’s theory is that the collective near-death experience has left people uncaring about such trivialities as fat content and food poisoning. Whatever the reason, business is steady, and Caroline’s even acquired a few regulars; a sweet middle-aged couple that she adores, and is pretty sure are broke - they walk from several blocks away and usually split a meal and a side - so she makes sure to sneak them some extra fries and doesn’t charge for drink refills. A piece of shit lawyer who’s desperately clinging to his glory days and seems to think eating there improves his street cred - he’s a terrible tipper and spends most of his time trying out cringe-inducing pickup lines on her. And three little old ladies who like to lecture her about how short her skirt is and the fact that she doesn’t have a man, but who always place the same simple, no-frills order and don’t hog the table too long. The rest are a blur of faces and fair to middling tips; she’s been at this long enough that she can zone out a bit during a shift, without worrying that she’s going to drop anything or forget an order.

Elizabeth is faring pretty well, her cheeks flushed with exertion and hair a little disheveled, but with a smile still on her face. People like her, even when she makes beginner’s mistakes like handing someone the wrong drink. She’s friendly and easygoing, and more genuine than Caroline manages even on her best day. She’s maybe even a little too easy-going; she still hasn’t figured out how to stand up for herself rather than just accept harassment and shitty tips with a smile. Han of course loves it because she doesn’t piss anyone off, but Han has never been a young girl getting her ass slapped by a drunken businessman, and it’s a habit Caroline is trying to break her out of. She’s off the hook tonight, at least as far as unwanted sexual advances go, but she gets stuck with a gaggle of pre-teen boys who have been either drinking, smoking something, or both. Or maybe they’re always that obnoxious, Caroline doesn’t know, but she’s willing to give them the benefit of the doubt of intoxication. At least until the third spitball gets stuck in Elizabeth’s braid. Her back is to the table, so only Caroline sees the face of abject horror she makes, eyes widening like she might start to cry. She feels a swell of something come over her that might be motherly instinct, but feels more like a _Max_ instinct. Drawing up to the full height that her stilettos allow, she charges directly for the unsuspecting little shits’ booth.

“Hi,” she says, with a big smile plastered on, but teeth bared and all the kindness of a jungle cat. She must be doing _something_ right, because they collectively fall silent and stop shoving at one another. Elizabeth is making throat-cutting motions off to the side, but Caroline ignores her. The smallest of the group ducks beneath his out-dated Justin Bieber hair and won’t meet her eyes. Caroline valiantly suppresses a cackle of glee.

“Normally, I’d threaten to call your parents,” she says genially, looking for all the world like she’s just engaging in some friendly chit-chat. “But since you seem to have been raised by barnyard animals, I guess I’m out of luck. Now, I assume that maybe one of you wants to grow up and see boobs one day? Well I can guarantee you that if you continue to treat women the way you’re treating my friend here, not only will you never see any, but you also won’t have any genitalia left to use anyway. So I’m going to let her keep doing her thing, and you’re going to treat her like the great girl she is, and leave her a fantastic tip, or I’m going to switch tables with her. And trust me. You do _not_ want me in charge of your food. Got it?”

She doesn’t even wait for their response, just turns on her heel and picks up the check from a young couple finishing their desert with her sweetest smile. She throws a few more death glares their way throughout the twenty minutes or so it takes them to order a few cokes and split a plate of fries, and Elizabeth laughs when she shows her the $10 tip they left on their $15 order.

“Next time _you’ve_ got to be the one to say something,” Caroline urges. “This job is going to eat you up and spit you out if you don’t start calling people on their bullshit.” Elizabeth shrugs silently, tucking the bills into her pocket, and Caroline knows her words have mostly fallen on deaf ears. But it’s fine, she’s done her duty for the evening. Not everyone is cut out for Max Black levels of attitude, she gets that. Hell, she usually isn’t either, but she’s learning a healthy balance. Though she likes to think she was never quite as naive as Elizabeth, she cringes when she remembers some of the things she’s put up with just so that she would make a good impression, not cause a scene. She barely recognizes that girl these days, and it’s something she never thought she’d be so proud of.

Despite her best efforts, her energy starts to fade with the steady decline of the dinner rush. It’s around the time of night she usually starts to get frustrated and bitchy, remembering that she has a business degree, and yet a job whose daily duties include scraping layers of old grease off of a rusted fryer, and the combination is not a pretty one. She’s half a step away from Darcy’s patent pie-punching method of stress relief, loitering in the cooler far longer than is necessary for refilling a single tray of onions, when Elizabeth pokes her head in.

“There’s a guy who just showed up asking for you,” she says. “Do you want to talk to him, or should I tell him you’re not here?” Caroline frowns.

“What does he look like?” she asks warily. If some creeper has chosen tonight to give her a hard time, he’s in for a rude awakening. Elizabeth looks positively gleeful though, as she states:

“Hot. _Really_ hot. Tall, blonde, looks like he’s made of puppies and calls his mother every Sunday?” 

The thought crosses her mind, she won’t lie, but if there’s one thing Caroline has learned in the past few years it’s not to get her hopes too high. So she does little more than run her fingers through her hair and blindly apply a fresh coat of lip gloss before she pushes past the kitchen’s double doors to see Captain Steve Rogers America standing at the diner counter. In fact she very nearly blurts out this entire mangled title, but manages to catch herself at the very last minute. For one, he’s asked her several times to please just call him Steve. But mainly what gets her is that he really doesn’t look much like Cap right now, hanging out in Williamsburg in scuffed shoes, a plaid shirt, and a Knicks hat.

“Hi,” he says shyly, and Caroline absolutely does not melt into a puddle of goo.

“I know you eat for six, but there’s no way even you can be hungry enough to have a meal _here_ ,” she scoffs, with an expertly-executed hair flip. Oh yes, there’s that Channing charm. She’d almost feared it would wither and die from disuse. Steve is hardly trembling in her wake, but she’ll take his big, slightly goofy grin.

“You forget I grew up in Brooklyn with no money,” he reminds her. “Trust me, I’ve eaten in worse joints than this.” Caroline hums noncommittally as she turns to wipe down the counter, cool and aloof. Her knees are not even the slightest bit weak, nope, not her.

“So did Darcy tell you where to find me?” she asks. She’s mentioned Steve a few times, seeing him in the halls or having lunch with him, and Caroline has done her best to remain blase about it. She’s surprised, however, when he fishes a Max’s Homemade Cupcakes business card out of his pocket. The very same creased and slightly worse for the wear business card she handed him when they had lunch in Stark Tower (hey, it never hurts to network). She’s desperately trying to figure out what it means that he’s held onto it all this time, and her Channing Charm is losing its edge.

“I googled you,” he admits. Her face must betray more than she means it to, because he laughs. “Don’t look so shocked, I do know how to use the Internet. Tony even told me that if I’m a good boy, he’ll take off the parental controls next week.” 

“If Tony Stark is your Internet tour guide, we have bigger problems than you stalking me.” Steve’s grin only gets wider. It’s infuriating that he’s not even intentionally flirting; she’s seen him actually try to be smooth, and it was painfully awkward (though still admittedly pretty cute). He’s just being sincere and being himself, and it’s completely adorable. It’s patently unfair; what is she supposed to do with that?? When she peeks back over at him, his smile has faded and his brow is furrowed.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Is it weird that I just showed up here? It’s weird. I didn’t mean it to be weird.” She places a hand on his forearm (his incredibly tanned and muscled forearm; not that she notices).

“It’s not weird,” she promises. His face expresses doubt, because she doesn’t think a poker face is a skill that’s ever come naturally to him. “Well, it’s a little weird. Not that you came to see me, that’s very sweet. Weird that you came _here_ , no matter how strong you claim your stomach is.”

“Now who said I came to see you?” he teases, and god she can feel herself turn bright red. Curse her pale skin. She can’t think of a clever retort, so she turns back to wiping the counter, which is at this point the cleanest it’s probably ever been since the diner opened. Han, Earl, Oleg, Sophie, and Elizabeth are all watching with pointed interest, but Steve either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Hell, he’s probably used to being stared at.

“Well you can’t have come looking for Dar- Max,” she quickly corrects, with a furtive glance over to Earl, who looks less than impressed with her stealth skills. “You probably see her more than I do these days.”

“I came for the cupcakes,” Steve says matter-of-factly. Caroline pins him with a glare, but he’s got that guileless expression down pat. It doesn’t fool her for a second; all he has to do is make puppy eyes and Darcy would surely bake him several dozen, in no way does a hankering for cupcakes require a trip all the way out to Williamsburg. Steve Rogers is full of shit, and she finds herself completely delighted with this fact.

“Well if that’s the case, you shouldn’t have showed up an hour before closing; we sold out halfway through the dinner rush.”

“That’s too bad,” Steve responds. He doesn’t sound too broken up about it. “I guess I’ll just have to have a cup of coffee then. And maybe I could buy one for you too, if you’ve got a break coming up…?” Caroline barely gets her mouth open to respond before Elizabeth is rushing over and practically shoving her out from behind the counter.

“She can spare a few minutes,” she assures, already set to work filling two cups. Steve’s grinning at her as he pulls out his wallet and tosses down more than enough for several coffees and a generous tip, and there’s not much else she can do but let herself be manhandled over to his side, at which time she’s painfully aware of the stains on her uniform and the fact that she smells like rancid meat. If Steve notices, he’s at least polite enough not to say so, simply gesturing at her to lead the way. There are plenty of booths open, but she bypasses them in favor of heading out the front door.

“Does no one care that she has two tables to take care of?” she hears Han ask, as the night swallows the noise of the diner down to a dull murmur. The weather is pleasant outside, and the streets are blissfully quiet. Caroline supposes that luxury will run out once the remaining Chitauri panic has subsided and the Williamsburg hipsters go back to being their usual boisterous selves, but for now she’s willing to take it and enjoy the peaceful night air. She and Steve find a bench to camp out on around the corner - a lovely perk of the rebuilding effort, but also conveniently out of eyesight of her co-workers. Steve warms his cup in his hands and takes a slow, deep sip.

“Real coffee,” he breathes reverently. Caroline scoffs. 

“You’ve got to be kidding. This is the worst coffee known to man.” Steve chuckles.

“I dare you to try Army coffee. Tar tastes better. But it’s what I’m used to. Seems like all anyone drinks these days is Starbucks.”

“And what’s wrong with Starbucks?” Caroline demands, taking outright offense at the slight upon her beloved caramel macchiato. Steve makes a face akin to a small child being force-fed broccoli.

“That’s not coffee,” he responds immediately. “That’s caffeinated sugar water. Why not just sprinkle some coffee grounds on a chocolate bar?” 

“Remind me to buy you some chocolate-covered espresso beans,” Caroline responds, only half-kidding. She takes a sip of her own coffee; heavy on the cream and sugar, but still undeniably the cheap stuff. “I’m not gonna lie, I prefer the caffeinated sugar water, but I’ve come to appreciate the regular old instant. I guess that’s just what happens when you can’t afford anything else, though.” She trails off, shocked that she uttered the words out loud. She’s past being as humiliated as she once was admitting to the fact that she’s broke, but still it doesn’t usually come out in conversation so soon; especially on what some might consider a first date. But aside from the fact that she seriously doubts he would consider it a point against her, Steve is the first person in a long time who hasn’t recognized her last name and put two and two together, followed by a look of pity. She hates that look. A small part of her feels like she should probably tell him, but she can’t quite bring herself to do it. And maybe that’s a bit selfish, because she knows there’s a damn good reason he isn’t completely up to speed on current events, but it’s really really nice to be seen, rather than Criminal Millionaire Martin Channing’s Daughter, as simply Caroline.

“Even a regular cup of coffee is expensive!” Steve continues to grouse. “I mean what is with that? It’s crazy.” Caroline smiles, and he ducks his head. “Sorry, I’m showing my age again,” he jokes. "It's okay to call me Grandpa, you wouldn't believe how many people do." Caroline arches an eyebrow.

"I'll pass." Steve sighs in relief.

"I appreciate it. It's actually getting a little weird."

"I imagine there's probably a lot of weird in your life."

"I won't argue that."

"Okay, what's been the weirdest thing so far?"

“The internet,” Steve answers immediately. Caroline nods sagely.

“The fetish porn can be pretty overwhelming to a newbie,” she agrees. Steve’s expression is a mixture of horror and confusion, and she gives her inner Darcy a little kick. Perhaps she’s rubbing off on her more than she realizes. “Sorry. Bad joke,” she apologizes.

“Well despite the fact that my sex life is apparently a pretty hot discussion topic, porn is the furthest thing from my mind. Contrary to popular belief I do actually know how that works.”

“Noted,” Caroline says, hiding her smirk behind the rim of her coffee cup. Steve doesn’t bother, and the look has her fighting not to slide right off the bench.

“It’s just a little daunting having access to so _much_ ,” he finally clarifies. “And I haven’t even heard of half of the stuff that is available. Ninety-odd years of music and movies and books and I can find any of them in a few seconds on my phone. It’s wonderful, but it’s so odd.”

“Well you can’t really go wrong with jazz. As far as movies go, Annie Hall is always a classic, one of my favorites growing up. And I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen Man on Fire.” Steve reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a little reporter’s notebook, flipped halfway open with a pen shoved through the spiral binding.

“Don’t make fun of me,” he warns, brandishing the pen at her as he slides it out. After jotting a few things down, he passes it over to her, and Caroline sees a list of historical events, media, and pop culture, all in neat block letters. She flips back a page or two and sees additions in several other peoples’ handwriting, recognizes Darcy’s. With a huff, she steals his pen and crosses a few items out.

“Don’t you dare let her force her terrible music on you,” she warns. “And no human should be subjected to Twilight, that’s just cruel.”

“Alright then, what else do you like?”

Fifteen minutes pass in the blink of an eye. They argue about movies (he thinks The Notebook was better than Roman Holiday, which leaves Caroline appalled), talk about their favorite restaurants (Korean food is Steve’s newest passion, but he’s still hesitant to try sushi), and reminisce about their awkward teenage years (Caroline never had a Bucky to encourage her bad behavior, but she did have her dad’s credit card and way too much time on her hands.) And it’s totally normal. The thing about Steve Rogers is that he could quite easily hide behind the mantle of Captain America; that alone would have half the women in New York throwing themselves at his feet. And Caroline is waiting for the other shoe to drop, believe her - seeing an arrogant side of him would really help her kick this ridiculous crush she’s nursing. But as he sits across from her, fidgeting with his coffee cup rather than actually drinking out of it (a habit she kind of hates that she finds so endearing), he never wavers from the same kind of casual, effortless conversation they lost themselves in at Stark Tower. It feels like there should be some sort of disconnect; like it shouldn’t feel so normal and comfortable hanging out with someone like him. And it scares her a little how easy it is in spite of that, how quickly she could see herself getting in too deep.

Her cup is empty, Steve’s still half full but gone cold. He passes it back to her sheepishly as she thumbs off her phone, buzzing with all-caps texts from Han telling her to get back to her tables.

“Sorry,” he says. “The, um… the super soldier serum that they gave me. It amps me up enough, more than a little coffee just makes it worse.” 

“You were the one who suggested it,” Caroline reminds him. He grins, cheeks turning red. “You were the one who went on your ‘Old Man Yells at Cloud’ Starbucks rant.”

“I don’t know what that means, but…it just seemed like the kind of thing to say. Isn’t that how guys ask pretty girls out these days?” Caroline wants to kick herself for the way her heart flutters in her chest. She knows she’s gorgeous, dammit, it’s not even a creative compliment. 

Oh, this is going to be a problem.

“You didn’t get your cupcakes, either,” she responds lamely, to cover her sudden resurgence of nervousness. It’s ten times worse when he offers her an unnecessary but appreciated hand up. She rises to stand, swaying slightly on tired knees and feet being pinched to death by her heels, and it leaves him that much closer; warm open smile, broad chest, and his fingers, which have not yet let go, stroking over her skin.

“I’d forgotten,” he says, with a sheepish half-shrug. On any other guy, it would sound like a line. Steve manages to make it just sound like the truth. His smile softens, and she bites hard on her lip, because oh boy is she fucked. She doesn’t respond, just turns and walks away rather than deal with the awkwardness of figuring out whether to part with a cheek-kiss, a hug, a handshake…? He calls to her before she can get very far.

“Can I place an order? For the cupcakes?”

“Sure,” Caroline responds, probably too quickly. Especially since they haven’t really done any deliveries since the fiasco with the stoners across town. But if there were ever a time to make an exception, she’s pretty sure a personal request from Captain America would be it. “What flavor?” He shrugs.

“I’ll eat anything. I kinda just wanted you to be the one to deliver them.” She loses all traces of cool then, turns and basically flees, calling over her shoulder:

“Text me.”

Not her finest hour.

She busies herself with side work in-between the last few post-dinner stragglers; enough so that Han makes a snarky comment or four. So sue her, she needs something to distract her from the fact that she just blew it with Captain America. Her level of manic vigor calms down a bit when she makes a mess on the table marrying ketchups, and she forces her brain and body to calm down as she cleans up after herself. Steve - not Captain America, but Steve - is hardly the type of guy to get chased away by a little social awkwardness. Also, there’s like a less than zero percent chance of this thing actually working out, so. No need for stress.

Earl tells her to say hello to Max as she leaves. It’s happening less and less frequently - the others passing on hugs and hellos and messages. It’s also making it that much more difficult to remember that she’s Max at the diner, but then Darcy everywhere else.

She’s at the kitchen island when Caroline enters the apartment, surrounded by pans of cupcake batter. It isn’t the certainty these days that it used to be; if she’s not at work, she’s hanging out with the new friends she’s made. Caroline is really, really trying not to be a jealous bitch about the whole thing, because Darcy is awesome, and it’s not her fault that other people see that, while Caroline herself struggles in social situations not to come off as fake or trying too hard. She likes people; people just don’t always like her back. True, not everyone likes Darcy either, but the difference is that Darcy genuinely doesn’t care. It’s a quality Caroline envies. Kind of a lot. But that’s her own issue to deal with. She’s not bitter about the fact that she sees so little of her best friend; or at least she’s trying not to let it show.

“Hey, do you have any of Han’s little Korean fish cakes?” she asks instead. 

“I want nothing to do with Han’s fish cakes,” Darcy answers reflexively, even though ‘fish cakes’ is about the least dirty-sounding phrase Caroline’s ever heard. “Also, they were delicious, so I ate them all.” A few seconds later, she finally looks up from her work. “Wait, why?”

“They looked good, I wanted to try one.”

“Lies. You don’t eat carbs after 7.” Caroline sighs.

“I thought Steve might like them,” she says, trying for casual but sure that she’s probably failing miserably. “He stopped by the diner today, and we talked. He’s into Korean food right now. Though we all know Han was born to family of small woodland creatures, I figure he’s the go-to guy.” She’s a little grateful for the way Darcy’s eyes widen in surprise, because a teeny part of her did kind of wonder if she hadn’t put Steve up to it, and she reached her humiliation limit about two years ago.

“Guess he really wanted to eat out,” she deadpans. Caroline’s poker face lasts approximately four seconds before she finally breaks down into giggles. 

“Will you promise not to respond like a child if I tell you I said I’d hand-deliver a batch of cupcakes to him?” Darcy waves a wooden spoon menacingly at her.

“Weren’t you just the one giving me the ‘business before boys’ speech last week?” Caroline shrugs.

“Technically, he’s a client,” she points out. Darcy scoffs, turning back to her stirring duties.

“Yeah, because you’re going to ask Captain America to whip it out right there,” she retorts. At Caroline’s slack-jawed lack of response, she amends: “I was talking about his _credit card_ , god, get your mind out of the gutter, Caroline.” Caroline groans.

“You are the worst,” she complains. Darcy hums delightedly. 

“So what kind of cupcakes am I making for Mister Captain America?” she asks. “Apple pie? Red, white, and blue sprinkles?” Caroline laughs on reflex, but the wheels start turning almost immediately; she’s been in business mode since about about the age of 9, it’s a hard habit to break.

“That’s actually great idea,” she says slowly, thinking it out. “What if we did an entire line of them? Avengers cupcakes. Themed colors and flavors for each one.”

“That’d be fun,” Darcy says noncommittally. It’s more than her usual apathy when it comes to all things cupcake, and Caroline learned long ago to speak Max-slash-Darcy. She doesn’t like to get her hopes up, and that’s fine; Caroline can muster enough enthusiasm for the both of them.

“We can sell them individually, or a discount if you buy a whole set. Put them in a big fancy box… Oh! Imagine the birthday parties…”

“Something really obnoxiously purple for Hawkeye. Terrifyingly spicy for Black Widow. Ghost pepper, maybe?” Darcy muses.

“Hold that thought.” Caroline grabs a notepad and starts scribbling out a little chart. Over the next half hour, she and Darcy create a set of Avengers cupcakes that - and she’s positive this isn’t just wishful thinking - are going to totally kick ass.

“This is probably the most brilliant idea we’ve ever come up with,” she says confidently. “We can’t put these at the diner, though - they need proper marketing and display. Once we’ve done taste tests and decided on the final product, we’ll take some pictures and put them online. If they do well…”

“They will,” Darcy says confidently. Caroline shoots her a teasing grin, the same she always does when she openly shows excitement. “I mean because everyone and their brother is selling Avengers shit right now.”

“Yeah, but we have a leg up - we have access to the _actual Avengers_.”

“True,” Darcy agrees, holding her fist out for a bump. Caroline complies, laughing, and licks off the frosting now smeared on her fingers. It’s nice, in a way that they haven’t really had the time for lately. Darcy makes jokes, Caroline turns them into an actual business plan. This is basically the foundation of their partnership, and she’d almost forgotten how much she missed it. She likes to think Darcy feels the same, as they stay up much later than either of them should given that they both work tomorrow, but clinking plastic wine glasses on the couch over the sound of a terrible DVD one of them found in the dollar bin seems infinitely better than sleep. When Caroline finally drags herself over to her bed, she’s still more than a little tipsy, and she dreams of Steve Rogers covered in cupcake frosting.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm catching up on 2BG (I'm at least a season behind on just about everything I watch), there have been no less than 3 separate references to Max Black being an alias; not to mention Max dating an older guy, and the actor who plays Earl showing up in Ant Man. Whichever writer it is out there that's CLEARLY my biggest fan, feel free to shoot me an e-mail. And a royalty check.
> 
> Also this chapter is way too long and has no real plot, but I've never been that great at the whole 'kill your darlings' thing and I couldn't find a logical place to split it in half, so. Here you go. Have some Darcy + Hawkeyes fun.
> 
> ETA: OH GOSH, I can't believe I forgot to put this in here... thank you guys SO MUCH for all the kind comments on the last chapter!! I was really unsure about it; even though this is a crossover story, I know that most of my audience are MCU fans rather than 2BG fans, so to have a chapter where Darcy doesn't even really appear for more than a few minutes...I wasn't sure how it would be received. I know that I love Caroline Channing, and her drive and her ambition, so I'm immensely happy that the rest of you fell in love with her a little bit too.

It takes a little while for Darcy to realize that not seeing Clint around Stark Tower wasn’t just a fluke; she has actually never once run into him in the hallways, or even heard anyone else mention his presence. It shouldn’t bother her, really, it’s none of her business. But she’s been spending more and more time hanging out with him and Kate, and it just makes the disparity even more noticeable.

She knows the highlights but none of the details: Loki brainwashed him, he killed and injured more than a few SHIELD personnel, Natasha was the one to snap him out of it. He’s supposedly okay now. But none of this explains his conspicuous absence from a team he’s allegedly a part of, nor the perpetual haunted look in his eyes and the way he, a trained military man and superhero, visibly startles at the slightest noise. She tries to tiptoe around the subject with Emily, but senses that, for once, she genuinely doesn’t know anything. Thor is still trapped on Asgard, Jane's got her head buried in the sand as usual, Bruce and Steve are giving her the standard SHIELD confidentiality non-answers, and frankly Natasha kind of terrifies her. So she just keeps showing up at Clint’s doorstep to hang and telling herself that maybe, in some small way, it’s helping.

This is what Darcy has learned after spending a steadily-growing portion of her free time in Bed-Stuy:

**1\. Clint is deaf.**

She finds this out by accident. A very humiliating accident that she would be happy never to speak of again.

On a lazy Sunday afternoon, she and Kate take Lucky for a walk. He gets walked at least once daily, whether by one of the Hawkeyes or someone else in the building, but overall he probably doesn’t get as much exercise as he should. Kate tells her about the summer she spent in California, Lucky happily chasing seagulls up and down the beach, a touch of wistfulness in her voice. So they spend an hour in the park tossing him tennis balls while they chat and gossip (Darcy is seriously dialed into the superhero grapevine, and it is nothing short of amazing. She thought those summers lifeguarding were the worst that workplace gossip got, but teenage Baywatch wannabes apparently have nothing on SHIELD). Lucky goes apeshit over a gaggle of squirrels that delight in darting lightning-quick circles around him, chittering in seeming laughter when his exuberance causes him to trip over his own feet and end up sprawled out in the grass, whining helplessly.

They buy ice cream on their way back to Clint’s, giving Lucky his own small cone that he promptly makes a giant mess of. The sun is just starting to set and Darcy is mourning the close of the weekend. She loves her job, really she does (and god does it feel good to say that. She hasn’t loved a job since the lifeguarding gig, when she was fifteen and stupid and felt like she owned the world). But she’ll take cuddling with a rambunctious labrador and eating the cold pizza she knows is waiting for them in Clint’s refrigerator over the blare of the alarm clock in the pre-dawn hours any day.

Two blocks from the building, Lucky suddenly pulls up short. He’s not an easily spooked dog, and has pretty good instincts, so the girls stop with him. Darcy’s hand closes around the handle of the taser in her bag, while Kate slips immediately into Hawkeye mode, alert and ready. She doesn’t have her bow with her, but Darcy doesn’t really think that would do much to slow her down.

“Yo, bro,” she hears from their left. Three rough-looking guys in brown velour tracksuits emerge from a dark alleyway, like something straight out of a mob movie. The one in the center grins ferally at Lucky.

“Is our dog, bro,” he says, accent thick as borscht. “Good dog.” Lucky does not seem to share this sentiment, his ears going flat and a low growl escaping from his throat.

“Shit,” Kate mutters. Her fingers flex and clinch, obviously aching to have an arrow between them. But after a moment’s hesitation, she steps out in front of the dog, looking every inch the spoiled little rich girl Clint teases her about being; haughty, aloof, and more than a little bored. “Sorry, boys. You know how dogs are… nothing riles ‘em up more than a big piece of meat and a couple bitches.” 

Darcy gets ready to run; she’s not quite on Kate’s level of feigned indifference, especially when the three mobsters advance. “This is great,” she mutters. “This is fun. Haven’t had my life threatened in what, a few weeks? God I’m so glad I decided to start hanging out with superheroes.” No one pays her commentary any mind.

“I keep bitches where they belong, bro,” the leader seethes. “Make sure they know their place.” Kate snorts.

“Pretty sure we already showed you goons your place,” she scoffs. “Not my fault you can’t remember who came out on top last time.” Lucky’s leash is testing the strength of its material as he tries desperately to leap into the fray, and when the aforementioned piece of meat takes a step too close for her comfort, Kate simply shrugs and lets go of the lead. Lucky soars through the air with a snarl, and Head Tracksuit gets a chunk taken out of his arm. His shrill scream would surely be something for his buddies to make fun of, if not for the fact that they are also currently running for the hills, swearing in Russian as Lucky chases them back through the alley and out into the next street over. He stops at the sidewalk, but far after the tracksuits have disappeared, he continues barking, loud and agitated. Kate tries in vain to soothe him, but he’s just too keyed up, won’t respond to the tug on his leash or her offer of treats. With a sigh, she turns to Darcy.

“Go get Clint,” she says. “Never mind that I’m the one that remembers to buy dog food and schedule vet appointments, Clint’s still his favorite.” Her tone is fond, hand stroking gently over Lucky’s neck and back, trying in vain to placate him. Darcy does an immediate about-face and beelines it to Clint’s.

There’s no answer when she knocks, so she waits a few moments and does it again, louder. Still nothing. Not even when she pounds a third time, with enough force to rival an imminent SWAT team, nor when she calls his name. She supposes he could have stepped out, but - and she means this as nicely as possible - Clint is a bit of a hermit. No judgment, Jane goes into the same sort of introvert mode most days. And since Lucky had been with them and Kate hadn’t gotten a text or call about any Avenger business going down, she’s relatively confident in predicting that Clint is in for the evening. She presses her ear to the wood, and hears faintly the mixture of banging and cursing that indicates him going about his usual business. She knocks once again. The noises fade, but still he doesn’t come to answer the door. Darcy is left confused and a little bit concerned, and when she tries the knob she finds it unlocked.

“Clint?” she calls into the apartment. Clint does not answer. “Scary burglar?” she tries again. No answer, but she hears running water coming from the second floor. “This is why the chick always gets killed in horror movies,” she gripes. “Too stupid to leave the suspicious noises alone and call the damn cops.” Louder: “Clint I swear to god if this is some weird prank, I’m going to kick you in the balls.”

Though she’s never been upstairs, the running water sounds like it’s coming from what she assumes is Clint’s bathroom. His bedroom has no door in the open floor plan, so she steps nervously across the threshold, calling his name once again. A movement in her peripheral vision makes her shriek, and she kicks out blindly. Her foot doesn’t connect with anything, and she curses herself for not switching on her taser, but then she hears Clint’s voice utter:

“Um.”

Darcy eases open her squeezed-shut eyes to see Clint standing in front of her; not harmed or tied up like she half feared, but very very naked. _Very_ naked. Like, complete full-frontal naked. Darcy gapes at him for a moment, enough that he starts to smirk, and with a huff she turns to face the wall.

“Did you not hear me shouting your name?” she demands. “I wasn’t kidding about kicking you in the balls, by the way, these boots are very pointy.”

“I can’t hear you,” Clint says, louder than necessary. “Look over here so I can read your lips.”

“What?” Darcy says, bewildered. “Look just because I’ve touched your dick doesn’t mean I need it on full display right now, so I’m just going to keep staring at this wall until you put some pants on.”

“Darcy,” Clint says, but she remains resolute. He sighs, and she hears him shuffle back into the bathroom. While he’s gone, she takes a surreptitious peek around the room. She doesn't know what it is she expects to find; and aside from the slightly terrifying pile of knives and arrowheads on the bedside table, she really doesn't find anything out of the ordinary. There’s the normal boy messiness; a rumpled bed, clothes on the floor, the remnants of an entertainment center in the corner. A faded Polaroid of two scrawny little boys outside an old farmhouse sticks out of the mirror, next to a California postcard that reads, in Kate’s handwriting: 'You're a dummy and I don't miss you. At all.' On the dresser is a Captain America coffee mug with a piece of label-maker tape peeling away from the handle that says ‘P COULSON’ in block letters. Before she can do a further perusal, Clint steps back into view - towel around his waist, and a hearing aid dangling from his fingers, which he pointedly slips into place.

“Oh,” Darcy says, feeling like a bit of an asshole. “Hey, I’m sorry. I thought you were just messing with me, I honestly had no idea you were deaf.” This means he didn’t actually hear that bit about touching his dick, nor about kicking him in the balls, and she finds herself a little grateful. The towel sits sinfully low, with sharp hipbones jutting out above the ratty off-white cotton, and Darcy feels her mouth go dry. It wasn’t like she didn’t figure that Clint was probably pretty well-proportioned, but she hadn’t really had a chance to notice during their brief encounter in the alleyway. She hadn’t known what she was missing, and now that she does…

Well, fuck.

“It’s not something I go around advertising,” Clint says, gesturing back to the hearing aid. It’s bright purple, and definitely something Darcy thinks she would have noticed before. “Being down an entire sense isn’t really ideal for an Avenger, but I’ve learned to deal with it, and the doctors are pretty convinced my eyesight improved because of it.” Noticing her eying the brightly-colored plastic, he chuckles. “My usual one is a bit more unobtrusive - high tech, inner ear, nearly invisible. Tony designed it. But it got knocked loose during a fight yesterday, so he’s got it for repairs. In the meantime, I’ve got this one.” Darcy is nodding along, taking it all in, while still willing her eyes to stay locked on his and not stray elsewhere. Clint raises a brow at her lack of responsiveness.

“Sorry,” she says again. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m not trying to be rude, I just… could you put some pants on now?” Clint downright cackles.

“I was about to take a shower when you barged in here, girly-girl,” he says. “No pants in the shower.” The grin and the eyebrow raise are a good indication that there’s a filthy joke on the tip of his tongue, and she has a feeling it’s going to involve a suggestion that she join him, so she snaps to and remembers Kate. And Lucky. And the reason she’s standing in front of a now only partially-naked Hawkeye in the first place. If Kate didn’t flinch in the face of those badly-dressed thugs in the street, Darcy definitely isn’t going to flinch in the face of Avenger penis.

“Leave a note next time,” she commands with a dismissive hand-wave. “I came in here because we had a little run-in with a bunch of guys in tracksuits. Seemed like you’ve come across them before. And I’m suddenly realizing that Kate wasn’t kidding when she said you stole Lucky from the mafia, was she?” Clint drops the teasing immediately, grabbing his clothes from their crumpled pile on the floor.

“The tracksuit draculas?” he repeats. “Is everybody okay? Where’s Kate?”

“Kate’s fine,” Darcy assures him. “But Lucky is a bit keyed up, and she can’t get him to calm down.” Clint is fully dressed in a matter of seconds, and even though she just finished assuring him no one was hurt, he still slings his bow and quiver across his shoulder.

“Where are they?” he demands, all business. Darcy puts any thoughts of his eight-pack behind her and leads him to the corner where Kate is still waiting with Lucky - but not before he makes a detour to the refrigerator to grab a slice of pizza.

“Seriously?” she says.

“Trust me.”

Kate has dropped down to a sitting position by the time they reach her, and the dog is no longer barking ferociously, but he is still agitated, alternately growling and whining, head rested in Kate’s lap. Clint approaches carefully, squeezing Kate’s shoulder as he takes a seat next to her.

“Hey buddy,” he says soothingly. Lucky whines pathetically, but sniffs the air and seems to register Clint’s presence. And the pizza’s presence. He makes a grab for it, and Clint holds it out so that he can devour the entire slice. “Who’s a good pizza dog?” he croons. “Good boy.” Lucky whines again, but pushes himself up on his haunches and nuzzles at Clint’s neck. Kate scratches him behind his ears, Clint kissing his nose, and after a few minutes of undivided attention, his ears finally start to perk back up. Clint rolls to his feet, holds out a hand to help Kate up, and takes Lucky’s leash to lead them home.

“What took you two so long?” Kate finally demands, halfway back to the building. Clint lasts a good three seconds before he finally busts up laughing.

“Mature content,” he jokes, moving as if to shield Kate’s eyes. She bats his hand away easily.

“Why didn’t either of you tell me he’s deaf?” Darcy counters. Kate looks back and forth between them and puts two and two together.

“Clint, I told you to stop wandering around naked when you have your hearing aids out.”

“It’s MY apartment!” Clint howls indignantly. Kate is shuddering and making disgusted faces.

“I’ve seen things,” she tells Darcy gravely. “Things that cannot be unseen.”

“You got that right,” Darcy replies. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t mean it in the same way, but neither Kate nor Clint need to know that. From the knowing smirks he keeps shooting her, however, she’s pretty sure he’s got a good idea.

**2\. Clint’s tenants are pretty rad.**

Clint and Kate say 7, but when Darcy shows up to the apartment, the door is locked. She knows where the spare key is, and she’s used it when looking in on Lucky, but she feels weird about using it now. It’s cool, though; she can keep herself entertained. She slides down to the floor with crossed legs and digs her phone out of her bag, fully intending to catch up on work e-mails (both hers and Jane’s), play some 2048, maybe get in a little reading. She’s forwarding repair bills to Accounting (no matter what the others claim, there are far too many explosions in Stark Tower than Darcy feels is entirely necessary) when she hears a few metallic bangs and a litany of curses coming from the stairwell. Against her better judgment, she pushes through the door and peers down to the ground floor, where she sees a shock of pink hair that clashes a bit with the neon orange bike the owner is struggling with.

“Need some help?” Darcy calls, already descending.

“No,” the pink-haired girl snaps, seemingly on reflex, and Darcy gives her a few seconds to reconsider as she nails herself in the shin with one of the pedals. She never does actually accept Darcy’s assistance, but she doesn’t argue when she grabs the front wheel to hold the bike straight, either. She lets her end drop finally outside of apartment 5A, rubber bouncing off of tile, and reaches around to stretch out her shoulder. “Sorry,” she huffs. “I do actually appreciate the help, being a bitch about it wasn’t intentional.” Darcy shrugs.

“It happens,” she says. “I’ve been accused of resting bitchface more than once.” 

“I don’t usually have to lug this thing up four flights of stairs,” the other woman continues, switching her stretches to the other shoulder. “But my girlfriend had the seat stolen off of her bike last week, and then today one of my co-workers had his tires slashed. It’s probably just a coincidence, but I can’t afford any more repairs than the usual wear and tear.” 

“Bike messenger?” Darcy guesses, taking in the two canvas saddle bags and the logo stenciled across the girl’s jacket. She nods.

“Jam Pony, over on South Market Street.” 

“That’s cool. I always thought that sounded like a fun job. You know, minus the whole sweat and exercise part.”

“Usually, yeah. But not if someone is going around wrecking our shit. It’s not cool - my bike is my child.”

“Maybe the bicycle population is going through its collective rebellious phase. You know - piercing their spokes, dyeing their handlebars.” Pink Hair lets out a laugh, reaching into her pocket for her keys.

“Hey, you’re the Hawkeyes’ friend, right?” she asks. “I think I met you at the barbecue a few weeks ago.” Darcy has a flash of recollection - homemade hummus and a brief conversation about The Sopranos. 

“You’re totally right… sorry, there were a lot of new faces. I’m Darcy, by the way.”

“Aimee.” Darcy nods, Aimee’s previous sentence catching up with her.

“Are you supposed to know that Clint and Kate are Hawkeye?” she asks. Aimee looks kind of startled, like she never really considered that it was privileged information.

“Like… they’re not very subtle about it,” she says. “I mean, really. There’s an archery range on our rooftop.”

“They do own far more purple clothing than any supposedly normal, well-adjusted people probably should,” Darcy agrees. “I dunno, I’m still relatively new to this whole secret identity thing.” As if her words have summoned them, she feels her phone buzz in her back pocket, and a quick glance at the home screen shows a text from Kate, informing her that they are running late because of ninjas. She sighs.

“Super secret purple superhero business?” Aimee guesses. Darcy silently passes her the phone. Aimee reads the text and pushes the door to her apartment open wider.

“Come on in, I have beer.”

“It’s official, you’re my new favorite Avenger,” Darcy says solemnly.

**3\. Clint’s love life is an actual train wreck.**

Darcy and Kate are watching TV and waiting for Clint to get back from a mission debrief, Kate defiantly chugging a can of hard lemonade and Darcy playing Tiny Tower on her phone, when the apartment door swings open. Except instead of Clint, it’s a statuesque blonde, who heads straight for the kitchen.

“Hey,” Kate greets. As she finds is the case so often, Darcy is left with little choice but to go with it and pretend that this is normal.

“Hey,” the blonde responds, digging through the fridge. “God, is there _nothing_ edible in here?”

“Clint’s picking up Chinese on his way back from the Tower.”

“Tell him if he gets some mu-shu pork I’ll marry him.” Kate’s laugh as she digs out her phone from where it’s slipped between the cushions tells Darcy that there’s something she’s missing.

“On it.” As she taps out a message, the blonde comes to sit in the empty space between them, beer in hand. 

“Hey, kid,” she greets Kate. It’s a testament to how much Kate must like her, because she doesn’t even object to being called kid, and Darcy has seen her throw a very near temper tantrum at being called the same by a poor hapless gas station cashier. Kate slides over to enfold her in a one-armed hug, and the blonde finally turns her attention towards Darcy. “Hi,” she says warmly. “I’m Bobbi, the ex.”

“Oh,” Darcy says, because really. How on earth is she expected to respond to that? The guy who she casually flirts with and has occasional masturbatory fantasies about has a smoking hot ex-something? Cool. Good to know. Bobbi smiles sympathetically.

“No idea, huh?” she says, when Darcy has no real reaction to her introduction.

“None whatsoever,” Darcy agrees.

“He hasn’t been quite drunk enough to go into the whole sob story in awhile,” Kate pipes up from the other end of the couch. Bobbi shoots her a shrewd look.

“He’s doing okay?” she asks. Kate shrugs.

“You know, for as okay as Clint gets when he’s not busy being a human disaster. They’ve got him going to therapy, but I doubt he’s taking that seriously.” Darcy shifts uncomfortably; she kind of feels like she shouldn’t be here for this. She likes Clint, likes hanging out with him, but she’s not exactly so intimately involved in his life that she feels like she should be privy to details about his therapy visits. Bobbi cuts her eyes over to her like she agrees, and Darcy ducks her head sheepishly. Kate and Clint have been so awesome that it’s been awhile since she’s felt like an outsider in their world, and she’d forgotten how much she dislikes it.

The awkwardness doesn’t last; Kate and Bobbi change the subject to Tower gossip, and when Clint shows up (with the promised carton of mu-shu pork), he and Bobbi are friendly and civil to one another. Bobbi keeps giving him this look like she’s trying to read him from the inside out, and he mutters more than once at her to stop. Clint sucks down three cartons of sesame chicken like it’s nothing, and she shoves napkins at him while chastising his table manners. It all seems so domestic and normal that Darcy kind of wonders why they’re not actually together, but she can’t figure a way to ask without it being weird, so she doesn’t.

Jess shows up every once in awhile. She and Clint are polite but strained, usually just talking Avengers business, and Kate gives her the cold shoulder. Sometimes she comes through the front door, sometimes Darcy’s in the kitchen with Clint and Kate and she strolls down from the second floor like she’s been there all along. Neither of the Hawkeyes seem to find anything odd about it, so Darcy just plays along. Because, you know, god forbid freaking superheros ever do anything like normal people.

And sometimes Darcy shows up to check on Lucky when the Hawkeyes are out of town, and finds Natasha seated at the kitchen table, casually sharpening knives.

“Um,” Darcy says. Lucky is sprawled at Natasha’s feet, more well-behaved than she’s ever seen him, and his food and water have been refilled, so she’s clearly not needed here.

“Hi,” Natasha says kindly. “You must be Darcy.” She smiles at her - a completely normal, genuine smile. Somehow, that just makes her even more terrifying, and Darcy all but flees the apartment. She’s a little disappointed in herself, to be honest - she’s stood toe to toe with Nick Fury and tasered the God of Thunder, she should be able to handle being in the same room as the Black Widow without wanting to pee her pants. Clint laughs at her when she tells him this.

“Aw, Tasha’s harmless,” he says. Darcy snorts.

“And by ‘harmless’, did you mean ‘could kill a man with a broomstick’?” Clint’s grin is fond and dopey.

“Yeah, but you know. She wouldn’t. Unless she needed to.”

“Barton, have you ever considered the implications of the fact that all the women in your life are heavily armed?”

“You’re not.”

“Taser. Right pocket of my bag. Also one self-defense class from Maria Hill, which probably counts for more than the entire semester of judo I took in college.” Clint’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You know judo?” he asks.

“I feel like I should be concerned that that gets you so excited. Also I never said I passed the class.”

“Oh,” Clint says, failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Darcy sighs.

**4\. Clint is just as bad as (if not worse than) Jane when it comes to self-care.**

They’re at Kate’s for once, the Hawkeyes fresh off of a mission and jokingly comparing cuts and bruises. Kate’s shoulder is jacked, and Clint’s got a cockeyed band-aid covering a minor stab wound in his forearm. The fact that a situation even exists in which a stab wound can be described as ‘minor’ in the first place reminds Darcy why she initially ran from SHIELD and superhero craziness, and she’s mostly hovering around the kitchen, trying not to stare too hard at the pile of blood-soaked cloth scraps littering the coffee table.

“This is why we never come here,” Kate complains, as she worries at a stain of some sort that she’s managed to get on the arm of the couch. “Your place is already a shit-hole.”

“My place is awesome,” Clint argues, but the words are a bit slurred. Kate cocks her head, watching him as he lists to the side a little. He’s understandably tired, but small scuffles like this don’t usually take quite so much out of him.

“Hey. When’s the last time you ate?” she asks gently. Clint blinks blearily at her, taking a second to form the motion of a shrug.

“Dunno.”

“That long?” She heaves a put-upon sigh and turns her attention to Darcy, who tries not to look too much like a deer caught in the headlights. “There should be a box of protein bars in the cupboard above the sink, if the human garbage disposals I live with haven’t already devoured them.” Darcy locates the box, which has just one bar left inside of it, but Kate already has her cell in hand, dialing Clint’s favorite pizza place. (It’s the one that’s closest, that’s literally the only reason it’s his favorite, he will eat anything.) When the food arrives, he wolfs down an entire pie by himself, which really isn’t all that much more than he usually does - if the other Young Avengers are garbage disposals, Clint’s an entire dumpster. She’s seen him and Steve have eating contests that have made her have to hold back sympathetic vomit, so it simply never occurred to her that he would ever let himself go hungry.

“Does that happen often?” she asks Kate later, after Clint has passed out on the couch and they’ve moved to the balcony to have a drink. Kate grimaces and looks down at her wineglass.

“Sometimes,” she admits, then after a pause: “Yeah. Probably more than it should.” Darcy absorbs this, but doesn’t really know what to say in response. Kate elaborates anyway. “He’s not great at taking care of himself. Sometimes because he gets distracted, sometimes because he gets depressed… he doesn’t really mean to, he just throws himself into one thing at a time and puts on blinders to everything else. Even his own health and safety.”

“You’re one to talk,” Darcy scoffs, gesturing at the awkward way she’s holding her left arm. Kate whips her head around, eyes flashing.

“That’s different,” she says hotly. “That comes with the territory. Of course we’re going to get hurt, it’s the job. But the job is also minimizing those things, and taking care of yourself as best you can so that you _don’t_ almost die every time you go out. I go running every morning and drink kale smoothies, and I’m a walking encyclopedia of just about every form of martial arts there is. I don’t care about any of that shit, but I do it so that I have a better chance of staying alive.”

“I’m sorry,” Darcy says. They both take large sips of their wine. “You guys scare me a bit,” she says finally. “All of you superhero types. I don’t know how you do the things you do without driving yourself crazy.” The stubborn glare remains on Kate’s face for a few long moments, but eventually she softens, as if just not up to maintaining that level of intensity any longer.

“I don’t know if I understand it myself half the time,” she confesses. “My dad is a jackass, but every time he would ask me why I wasn’t in college like all my friends, I never really had an answer.” She trails off, takes another gulp of wine, and continues: “I never told you about my best friend Cassie.” It’s not a question, but Darcy answers anyway:

“No, you didn’t.”

“It’s not…I mean the details don’t matter. But she was on my team. She was doing the superhero thing, because of her dad and because of other stuff, and…she didn’t make it. I think about that all the time. We could be going to class and having coffee and going out clubbing, and… I don’t know, what else do normal teenagers do?”

Being friends with Kate is strange sometimes, because depending on the day she seems 40 years old with the weight of the world on her shoulders, or barely shy of 21, with the world at her feet. Tonight, huddled underneath a ratty old blanket that Darcy’s pretty sure she stole from Clint’s apartment, she is very much the former, and she just scoots her patio chair close enough that she can lay her head on the younger girl’s shoulder. Kate sighs heavily, but she lets her body relax and her head rest on top of Darcy’s.

“For the record,” she says sleepily, “that’s why we like hanging out with you.”

“What?” Darcy stutters, thrown.

“It’s nice to have someone around to remind us that we’re not completely fucked up. That we’re not so broken that we can only be around each other, because let me tell you, I love Clint Barton to the ends of the earth, but when it’s just the two of us it can be downright exhausting. Same goes for America and the boys. So it’s cool that when we’re done shooting bad guys and training and debriefing, we can just… you know. Eat a pizza and watch a movie.”

“Normal teenager stuff,” Darcy completes the thought. Kate hums.

“Yes, Clint is mentally a whiny teenager, that fits pretty well.” Darcy laughs, but reaches over to slide her fingers through Kate’s callused hand. Her returning grip is tight, bordering on painful, but Darcy doesn’t let on.

She tries to keep a closer eye on Clint after that; on both of them, really, but it’s always Clint that she spies hiding an injury, ignoring the dark bags under his eyes, forgetting to drink water until he can barely speak through the roughness of his throat. He gives her the stink eye the first time he’s zoning out at the kitchen table and she slides him a sandwich and a glass of water, but he and Kate have been patrolling the streets every night for the past week looking for Doom’s latest creature run amok and he’s been out of it all afternoon. Next time she vows to try Natasha’s usual method of smacking him upside the head, calling him a dummy, and producing a donut from seemingly nowhere.

“I’m fine,” he insists, pushing the plate away. 

“Uh-huh. You mean aside from the fact that you just burned several hundred calories sparring with Kate, and I can hear your stomach rumbling from the other room?” Clint makes a suspicious face at the sandwich.

“It has lettuce on it,” he says accusingly.

“If I have to start mothering you and forcing you to eat your vegetables, things are going to get really weird around here,” Darcy replies.

“Is that tomato?” With a shrug, she drops into the chair next to him and rests her chin on her hand, watching him expectantly.

“You should know that I work for Jane Foster - certified genius, and most stubborn woman on this and several other planets. I have successfully kept her alive up until this point despite the fact that she would hardly notice if a black hole opened in front of her when she’s in research mode, much less her own hunger pains. So if you think I’m going to be deterred by you being a whiny little baby, think again.” Clint is still glaring at her, but she just arches her eyebrows. Eventually he huffs out an irritated breath and takes a bite, then another, bigger one.

“’s good,” he mutters, as if it pains him to say the words. Darcy pats his arm consolingly.

“Clean your plate or you don’t get dessert.”

**5\. Clint is filthy fucking rich.**

Darcy is sprawled out on Clint’s couch, with he and Kate seated on the floor in front of the coffee table. This was ostensibly movie night, but the Hawkeyes have decided it’s good time to take inventory of their gear, some of which suffered pretty severe damage on their last outing. She watches them bicker back and forth and toss unsalvageable arrowheads into the kitchen wastebin, with a stunningly low accuracy level given that these are supposedly the two greatest marksmen in the world; an observation that she has made known, more than once. Kate cheerfully flipped her off, and Clint threatened to stop letting her drink all his beer.

“Well, this one is definitely shot,” Kate says with a sigh, over the strains of the VonTrapp family’s goodnight song. Darcy has no idea how they ended up watching this. “Pardon the pun,” she adds, and chucks the bow to the ground. Darcy can’t tell by sight how much the two archers would be able fix themselves, but the weapon looks pretty thrashed to her. Clint picks it up and turns it over in his hands a few times, finally drawing the same conclusion.

“That’ll teach you to be so careless,” he cautions, waving it in Kate’s face like a wagging, disapproving finger. Kate snatches it back, indignant.

“This was _not_ my fault!” she snaps. 

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t my bow, judging by the pink grip tape on the handle.”

“Okay A, I got that tape out of your drawer. And B, I was falling forty stories!”

“Respect the gear, Hawkeye.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry if I was more worried about busting a limb than breaking a bow! Also, if you had signaled when you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have had to leap off a goddamn building in the first place.”

“I was a little tied up. Literally!”

“You just _had_ to flirt with that girl. I _told_ you she was HYDRA. I also told you that your terrible choice in women should really be its own warning, but no, you wouldn’t listen to me.” That Clint has no argument for, and Kate continues working on the arrow she’s sharpening, smug and satisfied. “You’re so buying me a new one,” she informs him.

“Like hell I am! Buy it yourself, princess.” Kate narrows her eyes; as much as she herself makes jokes about her situation, they both know that the reminders still sting.

“You can afford it,” she shoots back. Darcy snorts, because unless someone else thinks to pick up groceries, Clint has no food in his refrigerator except for a bottle of pickle relish and some moldy cheese. He has to take the stairs all the way up to the top floor because the elevator is apparently just never getting fixed. His wardrobe consists of his own merch and bulk t-shirt packs from Wal-Mart, most of them stained with blood, coffee, and/or other unidentified substances. She assumes the Avengers are well enough compensated, but Clint is not someone she’d peg as being independently wealthy. And she doesn’t really think about it again; just snags another beer and settles back into the couch with a laugh as this sets off a new round of bickering. Until two weeks later, when Emily approaches her at her desk. (She has an actual _office_ now, with stupid tchotchkes and everything. That will never stop being simultaneously awesome and a little surreal.)

“Are you at a stopping point?” Emily asks hesitantly. Something in her tone is off, somehow, and Darcy looks up from her computer.

“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately upon seeing the other woman’s face. Emily’s smile is pained and sympathetic.

When she pushes through the door, she sees Kate lying in one of the beds in the far corner. Billy is in the one next to her, with the rest of their team clustered around them in full costume. Clint is at her bedside in civvies, so this was clearly a Young Avengers only outing. Darcy feels her heart leap into her throat, even as she watches Kate, awake and alert, talk and joke and squeeze America’s hand tighter in her own. Don’t get her wrong, she knows that Kate is a certified tough as nails badass, but she’s still so goddamn young. Too young to have a very patient nurse stitching up a nasty looking gash in her side, kindly ignoring her pointed cursing. As Darcy chokes back an embarrassing noise that would probably have come out close to a sob, Kate catches sight of her.

“Hey!” she greets cheerfully. “Come over here and tell these worrywarts that a knife in the gut isn’t that big a deal.” The way she grits her teeth against the pain towards the end of her sentence kind of negates it, but Darcy puts on her big girl panties and comes over as instructed. She’s accepted the fact that she is never going to be okay with this kind of thing, but she is also 100% certain that her falling apart right now is not going to help anyone in this room. So she smiles and jokes and lets Kate re-tell her story of daring heroics multiple times over, each version becoming increasingly more dramatic (like there needs to be more drama in a story that involves a _knife wound_ ). She catches Clint’s eye somewhere in the middle of the fourth rendition, and though he’s smiling outwardly, she can see both in his eyes and in his white knuckles gripping the bed-rail that he’s freaking out a little.

Billy, strung out on some seriously intense painkillers, keeps up most of the conversation. But it’s not too long before the day catches up to the rest of the team, and they start fading rapidly. The nurses shoo everyone out, hustling the Young Avengers to some non-emergency beds to sleep it off, and Darcy and Clint out of the ward entirely. In the hallway, the silence is a marked change from the forced cheerful chatter, and Clint braces himself against the wall for a second, eyes squeezing closed. Darcy lets him have his moment, and when he blinks and registers that she’s still there, offers him a smile.

“Does it ever get any easier?” she asks. He laughs humorlessly.

“No. Not even a little.”

Kate spends one more night in medical for observation, but the next afternoon they send her home. Clint talks her into staying at his place for a few days, just so he can help out while she’s recovering, and after a lot of eye rolling and sarcastic commentary on Clint’s own stubbornness when injured, Kate agrees. She calls Darcy on the second day and begs her to come over, claiming that Clint is driving her crazy. Though she’s sure the feeling is mutual, Darcy shows up loaded down with two dozen raspberry truffle cupcakes and all the trashy magazines she could find. Kate makes a point of devouring one of the cupcakes in two bites, declaring with frosting smeared across her face that Clint isn’t allowed to have even one, and that Darcy is her favorite.

“Hold that thought,” Clint smirks, and rummages in the front hall closet for a moment before coming up with a large gift box. Kate tears into it to reveal a bow, exactly like the one she broke, already decorated with pink grip tape. She crows in triumph as Clint makes a point of moving all arrows from her reach. (This is easier said than done, they are literally _everywhere_.) “No shooting in the apartment,” he reminds her.

“If I get stabbed again, will you buy me a pony?” Kate asks, batting her eyelashes at him. Clint momentarily blanches.

“Don’t go getting any ideas.”

“You can afford it,” Kate says confidently, and Darcy realizes that it might not just be a joke. She asks her about it later, and while the only details Kate gives involve a shady brother Darcy has never heard of, she confirms that Clint does indeed have quite a bit of money stashed away. She also learns that he’s not just the landlord, he flat-out owns the building.

He’s not Tony Stark, out plastering his name all over tabloids and every building in the city. He doesn’t even bother to fix the small things he could easily afford, like the leaking dishwasher or the blood-stained patch of carpet in the corner of the living room. For awhile, Darcy doesn’t get it. What’s the point of having a ‘crapload of cash’ (Kate’s words, not hers) if you never use it? But then she spies him handing an envelope and a bag of groceries to the mentally ill woman who sometimes pushes a shopping cart up and down the street in front of his building. She hears him ordering a handicap ramp to be installed right in front of 1B, where frail old Mr. Gonzalez lives. She’s positive he never meant for her to notice, and she figures platitudes wouldn’t mean much to him, so she never brings it up. But something just clicks into place, and it gets filed away with all the other little mysteries that are being revealed to her.

**6\. Clint has absolutely horrendous taste in music, but not enough shame to be embarrassed about it.**

The plucking banjo hits them as soon as they reach the fourth floor landing. Kate shoulders her plethora of shopping bags and sighs.

“Aw, country, no,” she moans. Darcy, with a load consisting of only two bags, follows her up two more flights of stairs until they get to Clint’s floor, where the source of the sound is made apparent.

“For real?” she asks. Kate slams the door open so hard it bounces off the dent that has already been made in the wall several times over.

“I hate you,” she announces loudly. Clint is all smiles when he looks up from the bow he’s re-stringing, head still bopping to the beat. He looks momentarily surprised to see Darcy trailing behind her, but covers well as he begins to sing along. Loudly. And very off key. Kate huffs and smacks him in the shoulder with one of her bags.

This is not an isolated incident. Whenever Darcy hears him listening to music, it’s either 80’s metal or really terrible country. Oh my god, _so much country_. From the newer poppy stuff (he owns every single Taylor Swift album, both digitally and on CD) to the cheesy-as-fuck older shit about broken hearts and dead dogs. 

“What’s the deal?” she asks at one point. “Did you grow up in the South or something?”

“Nope,” Clint says, all smiles after he’s beaten the pants off of a very sullen Kate at target practice. “Iowa. Circus.”

“You grew up in the circus?” Darcy repeats doubtfully.

“Yup.”

“Okay. Sure, Clint,” she says, assuming that he’s fucking with her. Later, of course, she finds out that this is actually the truth. Though it still doesn’t excuse the myriad of times she’s found him jamming out to 'Gloria’. 

“Just do the same thing you do when he talks,” Kate advises. “Pretend it’s not happening.”

**7\. His taste in movies might be even worse.**

Clint texts her on a random Wednesday afternoon. This already raises a red flag; Clint hates texting, and usually relies on Kate to invite her over and plan things. They’ve exchanged numbers, simply because it felt like the thing to do, but they rarely communicate unless they’re face to face.

_wanna come ovr &watch A movie??_

The garbled message sends three times in the span of a minute. Ladies and gentlemen, an Avenger. The guy single-handedly took down one of the Chitauri’s giant space whales (a story which he repeats, ad nauseum, to anyone who will listen for ten seconds), and yet he still can’t manage to figure out a damn smartphone. Steve is suddenly looking like Bill freakin’ Gates.

_depends on the movie_

She’s stalling. Because she can tick off on her fingers the last three guys who asked her to come over and ‘watch a movie’, and not a one of them had quality cinema in mind. But despite what happened in the alley, she didn’t really think she and Clint were at the booty call stage. Hell, they hadn’t so much as even hugged since she started working at SHIELD.

She’s definitely over-thinking this. She knows it. But it doesn’t stop her from agonizing over the fourty minutes it takes him to text her back, barely paying attention to the lab equipment requisition forms she’s filling out, to the point where she has to re-do them twice. When he finally does deign to respond, all he says is to show up at 8.

She shows up at 8. She spends the rest of the day talking herself out of going and then back into it again. She texts Kate, who she does talk to fairly frequently, and casually asks what she’s doing that evening, hoping maybe she’s just misunderstanding and it’ll be a group thing like usual. But Kate reports that she’s going out with America, so it’s back to looking suspiciously like a booty call. But she still shows up at 8.

She shows up at 8 and Clint looks like he’s just gotten back from a run. It’s pretty gross. He covers the coffee table with chips and Red Vines and proceeds to eat them at his usual barnyard animal pace. That’s pretty gross, too. Darcy hovers awkwardly on the edge of the couch as he grabs waves a copy of ‘Road House’ triumphantly in the air.

“Prepare for greatness,” he proclaims, slipping it into the DVD player and fiddling with the remote to skip over the outdated previews. Darcy still hasn’t moved from her uncomfortable perch. Clint peers at her. “You can sit down,” he says.

“Yeah,” Darcy says, taking the spot next to him on the lumpy but incredibly comfortable cushions. “Yeah. Sorry.” He’s still giving her the side-eye. This is either the worst booty call ever, or she has completely misinterpreted the entire situation. She’s feeling all levels of mortified right now, and desperately trying not to show it. Because somewhere between deciding to fake a sudden illness and carefully planning an outfit that straddled the line between sexy and comfortable without trying too hard, she had actually warmed up to the idea of maybe starting something up with him. Clint is closed-off and a little abrasive at times, but he’s also hot as hell and a genuinely good guy. Given that she spends all of her time with him in his apartment, Darcy finds herself forgetting sometimes that he’s an Avenger. He’s just this guy she knows who’s rocking the hot grandpa vibe. And let’s be real, she’s made far worse romantic decisions in her life. But now, after all that internal back and forth, it turns out it was for nothing, because here she is sitting on her hands so she doesn’t jump a guy who just wanted a buddy to watch some terrible action flicks with.

This is so typical.

In the middle of an on-screen brawl, Darcy excuses herself to the bathroom. She texts Caroline as soon as she closes the door:

 _Complete booty call failure. My life as a spinster cat lady commences immediately._ It’s only a few moments before she receives back:

_I’ll start buying litter boxes tomorrow._

Darcy groans. Caroline is clearly spending way too much time around her. But a little sympathy wouldn’t go unwelcome, so she texts Jane instead:

_friendzoned by an avenger. Wish I could say I was surprised._

She assumes Jane is buried in her work as usual when she doesn’t hear anything back, and it’s passed the socially acceptable amount of time to be hiding out in the bathroom. With a sigh, Darcy shoves her phone into her back pocket and flushes the toilet, runs the sink for a minute. Clint’s probably caught on to the fact that she’s not really in here for a bathroom break, but she still feels the need to keep up the illusion. She grabs two more beers from the kitchen, and hands one to Clint as she settles back down next to him on the couch. She’s got the top wrestled off and is three swigs in before he mutters quietly beside her:

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“Um. Just. Sorry. If this is… weird. Or if… I dunno. I should have asked Kate to come.”

“Kate’s busy tonight,” Darcy answers, in lieu of having to unpack the rest of what she assumes he’s trying to say. Then again she’s clearly got a shitty track record of interpreting things correctly, if tonight’s debacle is any indication, so who even knows?

“Oh,” Clint says eloquently. And Darcy thinks maybe that’s it, maybe they can gloss over all of this and pretend it never happened. But after enduring the rest of the movie in awkward silence, when the credits roll Clint hits the pause button and turns to face her fully.

“I like hanging out with you,” he says, completely earnest. He opens his mouth a few times to add something to the end of that, but ends up just shrugging helplessly. Darcy is 99% sure he’s trying to find a non-asshole way to tell her that he’s just not that into her, so she interrupts.

“Clint, it’s cool.” He furrows a brow.

“I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s cool,” Darcy repeats. And it really is - she’s not in love with the guy, and he didn’t lead her on. She’s totally fine with staying just friends who sometimes flirt with each other. In a way it’s a bit of a relief, just to know for certain where they stand with each other. She won’t say that there isn’t a tiny part of her that’s disappointed, but it’s not worth tanking a perfectly good friendship over. She likes hanging out with him, too; and with Kate, and Lucky, and Aimee, and Simone and her devil children. It feels like it’s been a really long time since she’s had such a solid group of friends who she can be completely herself around. Even Caroline, whom she adores; now that SHIELD has entered her life again, she feels a world away from Williamsburg and the diner. She kind of hates that, but suddenly there are things in her life that Caroline wouldn’t understand, couldn’t relate to, or that she flat-out can’t tell her, unless she wants jackbooted thugs showing up at her front door to disappear her. This shithole apartment has become her safe space, and she doesn’t want to lose it just because she made the mistake of thinking Clint wanted to fuck her.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. For all that he’s this badass ninja Avenger, there are so many times that Darcy looks at him and just sees a scared kid. Like now, when it seems like he’s having the same kind of freak-out thoughts that she is. She stretches her legs out across the space between them and prods gently at his thigh with her toes.

“What terrible movie are we watching next?” she asks. The bright, genuine smile that breaks out across his face sends another little pang of lust and regret through her, but she tamps it down and resolutely does not stare at his ass when he bends to root through his meager DVD collection. Thankfully, her phone buzzes in her pocket at just that moment, providing a much-needed distraction. It’s Jane, finally responding to her earlier whining:

 _at least he’s in the same solar system._

Darcy hums sympathetically, but before she can even respond, a second message comes through:

 _also the friendzone doesnt exist. its a sexist myth and you are way too smart to buy into that._

Darcy glances over at Clint and laughs.

_hos before bros?_

_atoms before adams_ , Jane corrects, adding the little toasting martini glasses emoji. Clint starts the next movie; she hasn’t even bothered to ask what it is, but it’s sure to be just as painful as the last. Sure enough, she recognizes the opening credits of the terrible skateboarding movie he’s made them watch eight million times, and sighs. This is probably a sign, right?

“Just so you know,” she informs him as the opening music starts up. “I’m promised to Martin Channing.” She sees him gape at her out of the corner of her eye, but keeps her gaze fixed on the screen.

“I… what?”

“Hush,” Darcy admonishes him. “The movie’s starting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the non-2BG fans: Martin Channing is Caroline’s father, the one who is in jail for embezzlement. It was a running gag for awhile that Max had a thing for him. I really hope we get another scene of them visiting him soon, I liked the interplay between all 3 of them. 
> 
> For the comic fans: I started writing this before the newest Astonishing Ant-Man came out, so I'm sorry if this isn't accurately reflecting current canon.
> 
> Also, the terrible skateboarding movie is 'Grind'. It is terrible. It is also one of my favorites of all time, and I am only somewhat ashamed of that fact.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline-wise, this is pretty much happening concurrently with the previous chapter, but as we've already established... just don't think too hard about it. I also feel like I need to point out here that neither Clint nor Darcy are the most reliable narrators? Like, these kids are deep in Denial, about a LOT of things. Don't take them too seriously. And to quell any fears, they WILL end up together. But they've both got some growing to do before we get there. Clint, in particular, is a fucking MESS (see: this entire chapter).
> 
> And since there is NO POSSIBLE way I will be able to post the Halloween chapter on or even near the actual holiday - just know that it is going to be AMAZING, and I'm really excited to write it. Too bad it's like AT LEAST ten chapters in the future. At the rate I'm going, that probably means it'll be just in time for NEXT Halloween, but. Spoiler alert: someone dresses up as Hawkeye; someone kisses someone dressed up as Hawkeye; someone gets punched; and one Avenger dresses up as another. It's gonna be wild.

It’s months of paperwork and secrecy and bullshit before they finally get around to having a funeral, and Clint spends the entire time in a seething rage against SHIELD bureaucracy. Coulson’s office was cleared out a week after the Chitauri invasion, his parking spot and badge number reassigned; like he never even existed, all while his body was sitting in a drawer in the morgue. Phil Coulson deserved so much better.

Clint’s reluctantly begun the excruciating process of moving on, learning how to live without him. Not well, not at a particularly healthy rate, but it wasn’t until his death left such a gaping hole in Clint’s chest that he realized how much space Phil had carved out there for himself. He is finally getting to the point where it doesn’t physically hurt every morning to get out of bed, and now he’s got to put on a suit and tie and the appropriate grieving face and look at his lifeless corpse stuffed into a coffin and let it all come rushing back. It’s fucking unfair, is what it is.

(He and Natasha had their own ceremony of sorts, the night after the battle. Stuffed with shwarma and still dirty and bleeding, they spent an hour in the solidarity of silence. Side by side in a booth at their favorite dive bar, the only difference from their usual post-battle ritual the glaringly empty bench across from them. They didn’t cry or make any speeches, but it was enough.)

The Avengers are told of the date of the funeral, as well as the scant few members of Phil’s family he kept in touch with. The cellist isn’t allowed to come for security reasons, and Clint doesn’t envy the person who has to deliver that news. By seemingly unspoken agreement, no one really spreads the word any further. Clint is sure other people would have come; most everyone liked Coulson, at least in a hallway handshake kind of way. But the small knot of people seems right, somehow - at the end of the day, there weren’t that many people that truly knew him, knew the guy underneath the well-pressed suits and cool smile. Clint isn’t sure he and Tasha ever even really got to the innermost layers, but that was Phil for you.

The Asgardian bridge connection is still tenuous at best, so Thor isn’t able to make the trip to Earth. It’s a shame, Clint thinks, because he knows he and Coulson did some real bonding out in New Mexico. Thor would be the first to speak hyperbolically of his bravery and courage, raise a glass in his honor. Instead, Fury and Hill give stiff-sounding statements that Clint doesn’t hold against them, because he knows they both cared for Phil in their own ways. There’s a moment, a lull, where he almost stands and adds his own two cents. He can feel Natasha watching him levelly, ready to stand at his side if he needs it, but he… well, to put it quite bluntly, he chickens out. The thought of inviting other people into that quiet little pocket of space he and Phil had occupied together, shooting the shit and nursing bruises after missions, is just as abhorrent to him now as it was then.

Afterwards, when everyone is milling around making polite small talk and trading sterilized memories, Natasha remains glued to his side.

“I’m not going to fall apart, Nat,” he grouses. She hums low in her throat but doesn’t comment. Clint sighs, watching Tony and Pepper hug Phil’s distraught younger sister. He has to turn away after only a few seconds.

“He was proud of you,” Natasha says beside him. Clint groans.

“Don’t you start talking like a greeting card, too.” She shrugs.

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” Clint fights the knot in his throat, because funeral or no, Natasha Romanoff is not one for false sentimentality.

“Hey,” he says instead. “Remember the sex pollen threesome in Fresno?”

“Classified, Barton,” Natasha scolds, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth, and when someone asks later about their best memory of their commanding officer, helpless giggles bubble to the surface.

(He doesn’t tell Kate about the funeral. Later, she will sock him, _hard_ , in the shoulder and yell mindlessly at him, but the evening will still end with them curled up on the couch in front of a marathon of bad reality shows, Lucky at their feet, tail thumping a rhythm against the hardwood. Clint will slide an arm around Kate’s shoulders and kiss the top of her head and think about his first few days at SHIELD; fresh out of the military, with the scars of childhood betrayals still thick at the surface. Not a person alive that could call him a friend. Clint will think of now, of Kate’s warm breathing at his side and Natasha’s hand in his as they stood graveside. Of a team of superheroes who are doing their best to trust him even though he doesn’t trust his own head these days; of Bobbi who can’t stand him half the time, but still texts to make sure he’s eating and sleeping and relatively intact. Of Aimee and Simone who don’t even hesitate at the thought of asking him to watch their children or pets, of Darcy who keeps coming up with increasingly lamer excuses to show up at his doorstep with cupcakes and DVD’s. He will think of the nondescript guy in the suit that handed him his SHIELD entry paperwork, the guy that believed in him more fiercely than anyone - _anyone_ \- in Clint’s life. Clint will think of Natasha’s earlier words, of how fucking _proud_ Phil Coulson would be of him, and that’s when he will lose it. And it will be Kate that leans against him and lets him cry, and makes him only slightly burnt pancakes in the morning like nothing out of the ordinary has happened.)

Administrative leave is a bitch, especially for someone who admittedly doesn’t do very well with boredom - all the people he could even vaguely consider friends shockingly have their own lives. The other Avengers and assorted sundry superhero types are off either training, or saving the world, or doing the post-world-saving paperwork. His tenants have less life-threatening jobs, but jobs nonetheless. Even Simone’s kids have school, so rather than puttering around the apartment all day he takes Lucky for extra long walks and sets about repairing the damage left by the Chitauri battle.

He picked up a lot of basics growing up in the boonies, where no one would have even considered paying someone else money to fix a leaky roof or replace storm windows. The circus couldn’t have afforded hiring someone even if they wanted to, and Clint learned on the fly the same as everyone else, improvising when all else failed. He picked up quite a bit as well from Tony’s construction crew while making himself scarce in the Tower, and he’s confident enough that he can handle a few busted windows and some thrashed roofing. Nat and Kate share far less confidence in his abilities, and have made several pointed comments apiece about fucking up his hands, but he figures if he hasn’t lost a finger fighting space whales, he’s pretty sure he can handle a nail gun. (The bandages on his thumb don’t really support this theory, but whatever.)

It’s mostly mindless work, but it’s soothing, having something to do with his hands - something simple to occupy his mind, problems to solve that don’t have anything to do with the way his insides twist up thinking about Coulson and the Avengers and Loki. He’s barely sleeping these days, so he works into the night, to the point where several people complain about the pounding noises at 2am. Simone brings him cups of tea and sits with him as they get cold. 

“I have toddlers. I don’t sleep either,” she says nonchalantly. Clint’s throat clenches up at the gesture, but he doesn’t know how to articulate the feeling, so he just sits there next to her and covers her with the blanket from the back of the couch when her eyelids finally begin to droop. Sometimes he lets her stay there, brings Lucky over to wake the boys up and send them off to school. They love when this happens, because Clint shoves bags of Cheetos and mini candy bars into their lunchboxes, and have solemnly promised never to breathe a word of it to their mother.

He gets six weeks of peace - enough time that all of the windows have been replaced and he’s making major headway on the chunk that got taken out of the roof. And then Fury calls him in. He makes it sound optional, of course, but Clint knows better; especially with his future as an Avenger up in the air. And unfortunately there are no alien invasions to delay the inevitable, so after his next therapy session he finds himself traversing the winding hallways of SHIELD administrative. It still feels like a rat maze, but Clint had the layout memorized by his second visit.

Fury’s at his desk, shuffling papers. Clint will give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he’s actually busy, but he knows good and well that Hill does the brunt of the paperwork, with her usual brand of ruthless efficiency. He doesn’t bother waiting to be offered a seat - he learned that trick his first week here.

“In two weeks I’ll be done with my mandated counseling sessions,” he states plainly, plopping down into one of the chairs in front of Fury’s desk; the other one has a loose spring that pokes uncomfortably into his side. “When can I get back to work?” Fury spares him a glance, but it’s with a barely-restrained roll of his good eye.

“You must think I’m some kinda punk,” he scoffs, continuing his paper shuffling. Clint doesn’t have to move to be able to see that it’s his own file; his entire life, broken down into charts and disciplinary letters, literally held in Fury’s hands. He bites back a sigh and wonders when he became such a melodramatic asshole.

“I’m completed the sessions as required,” he says mechanically. Fury makes a noise and plucks a sheet from near the top of the stack. It’s a transcript of his last session, and all it says is: “Agent Barton spent ten minutes berating the maintenance staff for failing to keep the archery range in what he believes is optimum working condition. The rest of the hour he remained silent.” Fury knows good and well that Clint can make out the words, even backwards and in that tiny font, but he reads it aloud anyway.

“I’m very impressed with SHIELD’s doctor-patient confidentiality practices,” Clint responds sarcastically. Fury snorts and doesn’t even dignify that with a response.

“I would ask if this is your idea of cooperation,” he responds, “But given how many years we’ve known each other I think it’s a rhetorical question by now.” Clint shrugs, unperturbed. 

“I wasn’t aware that there was a right and a wrong way to have your head shrunk,” he says flippantly. He’s walking on thin ice here, he doesn’t even need Fury’s death glare to tell him that, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He’s going stir crazy, he needs to _work_. To have a bow in his hands and a purpose behind his shots. He feels like it should be obvious, that it’s the only thing that makes sense - to do what Phil taught him, to carry on.

“It’s the wrong way if you don’t actually make an effort.” Fury’s tone brokers no argument, and Clint makes an effort to swallow the half-dozen smartass remarks on the tip of his tongue. His gaze softens - at least as much as one could ever ascribe such a word to Nick Fury. But Clint sees the shift in his brow, the loosening of his mouth. “Barton,” he says finally. “You suffered a major mental trauma. You really think we’re going to let you traipse around unsupervised through the streets of New York with fucking _exploding arrows_ until we can be 100% sure you’re fully yourself again? And don’t think I believe for a minute that those were cleared for field use, by the way. I can’t decide if you’re a bad influence on Stark, or the other way around.” Clint glances down and scuffs his foot against the carpet.

“Phil trusted me,” he says sullenly. He wishes he could take it back the second it leaves his lips. 

“While I think it’s sweet that Coulson apparently had a soft spot for you and Romanoff, we both know that he let a lot of shit slide that he shouldn’t have. I need agents I can count on, not ones that just know how to skirt the rules. I’m aware that’s not your strong suit, Agent Barton, but they’re in place for a reason.” Clint groans; he fucking hates when Fury gets all high school principal on him. “Look, nobody asked for any of this shit. And nobody’s saying it’s fair. But the fact remains that we run a multi-million dollar paramilitary organization here - not a goddamn daycare. So until you nut up and start using your words like a big boy, you’re going to remain right where you are - sitting on your ass and twiddling your damn thumbs.” Just like that, he begins shuffling Clint’s file back into its well-worn manila envelope. “That will be all, Agent Barton.”

Clint wants to argue; _god_ , does he want to argue. But the thing is, he knows he’s getting off easy. His years of service and the memory of Phil must count for something, because he could just as easily have been reprimanded, no chance in hell at ever returning to active duty. So he takes the high road for once and exits Fury’s office in silence.

He supposes he shouldn’t be particularly surprised that Nat is waiting for him outside, posed oh-so-casually against the wall with her nose buried in her phone. She doesn’t look up as he exits, but falls into step beside him a few paces down the hallway.

“How did it go?” she asks once they’ve rounded the next three corners. Clint shrugs.

“About as well as could be expected, I guess.” Natasha holds her tongue and Clint wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to have that sort of self-control. The elevator ride is quiet, but as soon as the doors to the lobby open it’s like a flood of noise and sound. Clint doesn’t think he conceals his flinch as well as he’d like - certainly not from Nat. There’s no one here he knows, other than the vaguely familiar faces of some of the support staff, though that hardly matters these days; there were videos of him, of all of them, splashed across the internet before the battle had even finished. He knows Nat hates it too - being invisible is their job. She’s just better at hiding it.

“Relax, Barton. Your face is not that memorable.”

“Tell that to Lisa from Accounting,” he throws back. Their banter is practically on autopilot after this many years, glib and meaningless. They tease because it’s easier than putting words to the full conversations they have in the space between glances.

“Lisa turned out to be a supervillain,” Nat says dryly.

“Didn’t make her any less crazy about me.”

“The operative word here being _crazy_.” Clint is nearly to the front door, and Natasha is still at his heels. He pulls up short.

“Did Fury tell you to escort me out?" he demands. “Like how they make you sit in a wheelchair all the way to the door in the hospital even when there’s nothing wrong with your legs?” Natasha's face is as inscrutable as always, and she doesn’t bother to answer.

“Take care of yourself,” she says instead. From anyone else it would be a meaningless platitude, but Natasha knows him. Terrifyingly well. She knows that it’s something he struggles with, something he has to be conscious about. She says it like she doesn’t have the same struggle within herself, but it’s always been easier - for both of them - to focus on someone else’s problems and issues rather than their own. If they were alone, Clint might be tempted to hug her, but out here he feels too vulnerable, too exposed. Too scared of giving too much away. So instead he bumps her shoulder with his and salutes, jaunty grin betraying nothing, and heads down to the nearest subway platform.

There’s work waiting to be done when he gets back to the building, comforting and familiar. Sand this, hammer that. No planning, no surprises, just the thwack of wood and metal and that pleasant soreness to his muscles. He maybe overdoes it a tad - he makes a godawful racket to the point where he can’t even hear his own thoughts, but it’s the most relaxed he’s been in ages.

He’s sweating by the time he finds a good stopping point, in desperate need of a shower and a beer, in whichever order is easiest; he’s not actually opposed to drinking the beer _in_ the shower. A cursory glance at the phone that he’s left ignored on the kitchen table for the past few hours shows that Kate, Bobbi, and Darcy have texted him, all with offers to hang out, get food, relax. Though none of them mention the meeting with Fury, there’s a good chance that they all know about it. He appreciates the check-in, but the only person he feels like being around right now is Lucky. By the time both man and dog are cleaned, fed, and watered, it’s just a lazy heap of skin and fur on the couch. Lucky’s head rests in his lap, belly in the air and mouth hanging open, and Clint’s in a better headspace. He’s still mildly pissed at Fury - mostly on principle - but he’s… resigned.

He’s never liked to consider himself a pessimist, despite quite a bit of evidence to the contrary - he’s a realist. Granted, the two go a bit hand-in-hand at times, but previous experience has taught him that preparing for a negative outcome is probably far healthier than waiting for sunshine and rainbows that are never going to come. Like expecting that two hours a week with a shrink is going to magically cure him, fix him, clear out the cobwebs and booby traps and all traces of Loki from his head. Maybe a few years as a marksman was all he was ever going to get out of SHIELD, and vice-versa. He knows Phil always hated when he said shit like that, but it’s not like he was ever going to measure up to superhumans and aliens and fucking _Natasha_. He was dubious from Coulson’s first mention of the project; where does a garden-variety human, even one with with admittedly amazing sharpshooting skills, fit into that equation?

He had a good run, though. He played in the big leagues, and he came out of it mostly alive and somewhat intact. That in itself says a hell of a lot. But maybe it wasn’t something that was meant to last. 

And that’s okay. Really. He’s got more money than he even knows what to do with, a great place to live, friends and people who care about him. It’s more than he _ever_ expected. Hiding in the basement in a glorified hovel in the middle of an Iowa cornfield, huddling next to Barney for warmth under a threadbare circus tent, advancing through the Army not really enjoying it per se, but just being grateful to find a use for something he happens to be good at - it never crossed his mind that he might ever have the chance to settle down and be normal. _Happy_ , even.

He would be okay, he realizes. If this all ended tomorrow, next week, next month. He could probably be an actual landlord with all the extra downtime. Fix people’s shit and like… mow the grass? He doesn’t actually know what a landlord is technically supposed to do. He’d take better care of Lucky, for sure; the way his tongue lolls onto Clint’s thigh leaves no indication that he lacks for a thing, but Clint would be able to could stop pawning off so much of his care onto neighbors and friends. He could tag along with Kate when she needed extra backup, though they’re rapidly approaching the day when that’s going to be a thing of the past. Kate is sure to be a full-fledged Avenger herself any day now, and while he likes to think he played some small part in that, he doesn’t delude himself into thinking he was in any way essential; Kate Bishop was going to be a superhero no matter who or what crossed her path. But he can still be around for a place to crash, help patching up, strategy…

Who is he kidding? He’s the _worst_ at strategic planning.

He could get a life. Go on a _date_. Oh god, there’s a scary thought. Does he even know _how_ to date? Shit. There’s a downside to all of this - saving the world was always a pretty fucking good excuse as to why he was single, why he couldn’t ever offer anyone anything past a hook-up. He still isn’t ever going to be much of a catch - divorced, riddled with scars, and unable to sleep through the night most of the time - but the option of a relationship would be back on the table. It would be an actual possibility.

Darcy could be a possibility. Granted, he hasn’t really done anything to give her the impression that he’s interested; if anything, he’s probably done the opposite. He does like her, for the record. He thinks she’s far too smart to get mixed up with him, but he likes her. A lot. Likes her calm and her laugh and the way she’s jaded and hardened and sad and hiding it beneath a razor-sharp wit and a push-up bra. The bright lips and dark eyes are as much of a disguise as the Hawkeye mask Clint wore for years; he gets what it’s like to want people to look but not see. He has this feeling that it would be too much with her, though - too much and too fast, and it makes him tongue-tied and nervous when it’s just the two of them alone in his apartment, Darcy clearly ready for things he isn’t yet.

So maybe it won’t be her. Maybe it will be Nat or Jess; maybe he and Bobbi could make another go at it, or maybe he’ll meet a girl in the grocery store and fall hopelessly in love. And he’ll be able to tell her that he’s a landlord and an occasional consultant. No lies, no backstories. He doesn’t know that he can quite picture himself settling down with 2.5 kids and a white wedding, but it’s something that _could_ happen. Theoretically. It’s a future. It’s a life that he has a place in, that won’t end if the Avengers no longer need him. He doesn’t need to be needed, has never really needed other people himself and therefore not particularly familiar with the concept. But he’s wanted. He has somewhere he belongs.

And he has _so much_ to thank Phil Coulson for.


End file.
